



CIlEmiGifF DEFOSm 



on the 



Shadows on the Wall 



By 

BERT FINCK 

Author of Webs, Musings on the 
Lounge, Plays, etc. 



JOHN p. MORTON & COMPANY 

' INCORPORATED 

LOCISVILLB, KeNTUCKT 

1922 



^6\\ 



■3 



X^^?^ 



Copyright, 1922 
Bv BERT FINCK 



DEC 30 22 



C1A692640 



Dedicated To 
The Memory of My Friend 

MADISON CAWEIN 



Look, then, into thine heart and write ! 

Yes, into Life's deep stream! 
All forms of sorrow and delight, 
All solemn Voices of the Night, 
That can soothe thee, or affright, 

Be these henceforth thy theme. 

Longfellow. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Shadows on the Wall 1 

And Five Plays: 

The Poet 20 

The House of Tragedy 36 

The Unwelcome Visitor 75 

Remorse 88 

Adversity 97 



ows on 

PEOPLE 

I always did love people. Dearer to me — far, 
far more interesting than picture, story, scene of 
nature, play, was ever a human face. When 
merest child, I would turn aside from the 
features of a show, to lose myself in the expres- 
sion of a woman, man, or child; and I would 
soon be weaving stories of that face; and that 
face would long be haunting me, and following 
me, and calling me. I always did love people. 
As I grew older, I often wandered through the 
streets at night, and oft pursued through dark 
and lonely spots a face that set my reveries 
ablaze. That is why I loved the streets ; that is 
why I loved to roam at night ; that is why I loved 
to lounge at the street corners and watch the 
lights — ^though oft pale lights — of souls. And I 
have never yet met a soul that I could hate. I 
have pitied souls; I have wept for them; but I 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



could never condemn them, and they were great 
to me, even in their crimes. I have often yearned 
to place my arms about all sinners and weep with 
them for their errors and for mine. Hate any 
one at all? I know of no one I could hate. 
What, hate people for their weakness? hate 
people for their fever? hate people for their 
madness ? hate people for their sores ? I always 
did love people, and saw but good in them. I 
cannot dream of a soul that is perfectly bad ; the 
darkest villain has his affections; crimes have 
been committed from worthy aims. I always 
did love people and I love to be one of them, with 
their faults, their hopes, and their follies, and 
their romps of childhood, which they never out- 
grow. I love to be in the streets with the people, 
ever ready to speak with my own. 

POET'S RE VERY 

This is all I know; that I must suffer day by 
day, and night by night, and struggle, fall, and 
quiver every hour with the anguish of my 
wounds. There is no balm for me; and I can 
only utter cries of pain the world calls poetry or 
philosophy, to praise, condemn, or idly criticize, 
oblivious to all but what they really are — ^the 
pleadings of my agony. 



Shadows on the Wall 



BALM 

All night long, wild pains torment me — all 
night long. All night long, a face bends o'er 
me — all night long. All night long, I burn and 
shiver with alternate fire and cold. All night 
long, a sweet voice whispers, ''After night must 
come the morn." 

TO ETHEL, DEPARTED 

You understand, now, do you not, dear Ethel, 
how I looked upon you as a flower of heaven? 
as a lily wafted down from the garden of the 
angels, to give this earth a glimpse and perfume 
of celestial purity. 

You understand now, how I loved you, as one 
above the mortals, as one whose holy beauty bent 
my knees as to a shrine ? You understand it all, 
now, how I loved and why kept silent? how in 
the light of my adoration words would always 
fade away? 

You understand it all, now, how I was always 
kneeling before you as my soul, dear, and so I 
could not speak. And you understand it all, 
now, how when you left this earth to join the 
flowers above, dear, I then could speak — too late. 



Shadows on the Wall 



GAIN 

To gain, whatever it be, means sacrifice. If it 
be art, we must divorce ourselves from earthly 
peace and comfort ; if it be wealth, we must give 
up our hearts; if it be sovereignty, we must sur- 
render joys of comradeship; if it be worldly 
pleasures, we first must banish thought. 

HELL 

Can there be greater punishment than this, 
than to behold the staring, awful fact that, on 
account of our own foolish acts, we are not with 
the blessed: Can there be fiercer purgatorial 
fire — can there be sharper torment of the damned 
— than realization of the dreadful truth that we 
ourselves lost Heaven? 

INSPIRATION 

I run up and down, and up and down, yet I 
can never catch her. At last, I slip and stumble, 
and I can not move at all. Then lo ! as I lie there 
on the stairway, despairing, she who is the cause 
of my anguish, glides softly down the steps, and 
I grasp the end of her gown ! I draw her toward 
me, and I bless my fall. 



Shadows on the Wall 



SORROW 

It is true that hearts break every hour of the 
day ; but they do not die ; they continue to live, 
and it is to the music of their moanings that the 
world rolls on. 

SIN 

As long as there's unsatisfied yearning for 
love, there will be sin. As long as there's thirst 
for sjnnpathy, there will be sin. As long as there 
are torments in body and mind, there will be sin. 
As long as there are ghosts that reproach and 
pursue, there will be sin. As long as there's the 
sad, staring face of mistake, there will be sin. 
As long as there's the cold icy clutch of remorse, 
there will be sin. As long as there is ghoulish, 
vampirish despair, there will be sin. 

ON THE CROSS 

Even as Christ, the incarnation of Sympathy, 
suffered upon the cross, so at this moment, and 
so in this world forever. Sympathy hangs upon 
the cross. 

Even as Christ, the incarnation of Gentleness, 
was cruelly tortured on the cross, so at this 
moment, and so in this world forever, Gentleness 
feels the awful wounds of the cross. 



Shadows on the Wall 



Even as Christ, the incarnation of Sensitive- 
ness, bore the agony of the cross, so at this 
moment, and so in this world forever, Sensitive- 
ness groans upon the cross. 

Even as Christ, the incarnation of Unselfish- 
ness, writhed under the torments of the cross, so 
at this moment, and so in this world forever. 
Unselfishness quivers with the nails of the cross. 

LIGHT OF NIGHT 

I thank Thee, Lord, for all my woes, my 
sufferings, and pains. I thank Thee for the 
holy gifts of sorrow and of wounds. I thank 
Thee for the privilege to know the heart of life, 
learned not from laughter, but from tears, 
beneath the stars of night. 

I thank Thee for heart knowledge that gives to 
me sympathy, so I may understand the cross and 
the hour of Calvary. 

DE PROFUNDIS 

When we sit down, and think of all our follies, 
our broken hopes, and dreams forever gone, our 
wasted youth, and opportunities blasted, we can 
do no more than pray, ' ' God, let us die ! ' ' 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



When we sit down, and ghostly forms surround 
us — ghosts of ambition, perished in their prime, 
of wrecked love, and friendship coldly murdered, 
we can no more than pray, ''God, let us die!" 

When we sit down, amidst dead, staring faces 
of outraged duty and of crushed ideals, of aspira- 
tion stifled in its glory, we can no more than 
pray, ' ' God, let us die ! " 

When we sit down, and hear the mocking 
laughter of sin that gave us nothing but remorse 
for hours spent in its treacherous embraces, we 
can no more than pray, ' ' God, let us die ! ' ' 

When we sit down in the uncanny presence of 
doubt and shame and quivering despair, and 
listen to life 's dirge of disappointment, we can no 
more than pray, ' ' God, let us die ! ' ' 

But when we see amidst those ghastly visions, 
and hear amidst those notes of wild complaint, a 
voice and hand imploring aid and mercy, we can 
but kneel and pray, ' ' God, let us live ! ' ' 

ADVERSITY 

There was a time when I would shrink from 
you, Adversity! from your dull tattered gown 
and wrinkled brow ; yet as I shrank, you did not 
draw away from me, but cast your shadow 
heavier over me. And I have grown to love you, 



Shadows on the Wall 



Oh, Adversity! for you at least have never left 
my side, vrhile hopes and dreams and aspirations 
faded, and human loyalty and friendship often 
paled. And I have grown to love your tattered 
garments and to feel softness in your wrinkled 
brow; and I have grown to know you as a com- 
rade, and to feel your shadow as a sheltering 
cloak, beneath whose folds more and more I see 
peeping the hidden gems and treasures of life's 

night. 

TRAVELING 

I am traveling in a foreign country, and there 
are many others traveling there with me. Among 
those others there are many whom I admire and 
with whom I would companion be ; but they do 
not speak my native language, and we can only 
be polite to each other, and that is as near to each 
other as we can ever be. At last, on the way, 
I meet one of my own country, in whom there is 
little to admire that I can see ; but he does speak 
my own language, and he easily becomes my 
companion as we travel along the way. So it is 
as we travel through life ; 'tis not always the ones 
we admire the most that become our daily com- 
panions, but more often those that speak our 
nature's tongue; and especially when the words 
of that tongue are frailties; it has been ever so. 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



A STORM 

The winds are tossing with her cares (Oh, 
Mother of Mercy, pray for her!). The rain is 
falling with her tears (Oh, Mother of Mercy, 
pray for her !) . Midst the flash of the lightning, 
dead dreams glare (Oh, Mother of Mercy, pray 
for her!). And murdered hopes join the ghosts 
of the air (Oh, Mother of Mercy, pray for her!). 

THE MOTHER 

A mother prayed one night that her sick 
child might not be seized by death. Her prayer 
was heard and granted ; and one day after that, 
she saw him covered by the shadows of disgrace. 
And then, the sword-sharp thought pierced 
through her broken heart, ''Far better had I 
prayed that night, 'Thy will, Lord, be done.' " 

WHAT I HAVE LEARNED 

I have learned this, by sorrow and experience, 
that life's a mystery which none can understand; 
that they are mad who dream that they can solve 
it, and the greatest fools are they who think that 
they are wise. 

9 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



I have learned this, that fortune is a wanton, 
and that there is no way at all to win her moods ; 
no settled rule to gain her heart or favor, and 
her whims are unaccountable and strange. 

I have learned this, that it is the height of folly 
to set one's trust upon an earthly day; that 
there's no power that is not perishable, except the 
power of eternity. 

I have learned this, that it is wild pretension 
to say what I will do or where I '11 go ; to-day I 
may be dressing for my wedding; to-night that 
dress may serve me for my tomb. 

I have learned this, that all who live must 
suffer, and in the fever of their pain, they sin ; 
that aspiration means a crucifixion, and souls 
all feel the agony of the cross. 

I have learned this, that it is vain presumption 
to judge the act of any one at all ; that wisdom 
weeps when it beholds the fallen, and knowledge 
wears the crown of sympathy. 

THE REASON FOR IT 

It was not that she cared so much for him ; it 
was not that he cared so much for her; it was 
because their hearts spoke the same language and 
understood each other — that was all. 

10 



Shadows on the Wall 



HER SMILE 

He does not care how muoh he suffers, so long 
as she is free from pain; it matters not what 
storms are coming, so long as she is not in their 
way. No frown of fortune can torment him, no 
dying hope can make him quail, so long as he 
can see her smiling, for then, all shadows fade 
away. 

AN INVALID'S PRAYER 

Grant that my pains and sufferings, Lord, be 
those that would have come to them I love, had 
they not come to me! Grant that the crosses 
which I bear be those that were taken away from 
my friends, and in place of the night Thou hast 
given to me, Lord, give to them day! 

THE LADY-AT-THE-DESK 

All day long she is the flower of a corner 
pharmacy; at her sight all drugs and bottles 
lose their power to affright. All day long peace, 
joy, and comfort fall on customers and clerks 
from the presence of the flower they call the 
Lady-at-the-desk. All day long she fills the 
business of the corner store with light, and 
departing, leaves behind her brightness that 

11 



Shadows on the Wall 



illumines night. Who will be the best remem- 
bered when the door of business closes? Such 
as she, the guardian flower, faithful Lady-at- 
the-desk. 

ALL SOULS' DAY THOUGHT 

I know not what to-morrow may bring me ; 

I know not where to-morrow I may be ; 
But this I know, whatever be the day, 
I still can love, and for my loved ones pray. 

FLAG-DAY PRAYER 

God bless our flag, and give us grace to love it 
fervently, and bear it always in our hearts as 
one of Thy most precious gifts — our flag of 
Liberty. Help us to feel the holy spirits it 
invokes of loyalty and sacrifice, and fill our 
breasts with joyous readiness to heed its every 
call. Give us strength, Lord, to save it from 
desecration at the hands of all its enemies at 
home and abroad — profiteers, and selfish poli- 
ticians who would sell our freedom as they sell 
their souls, Bolsheviki, anarchists, and other 
vermin of the kind. And give us gratitude, 
Lord, to forever remember the glorious ones who 
suffered and died for our flag. 

12 



Shadows on the Wall 



HOPES 

One by one old hopes part from me; one by 
one new hopes smile on me. Hopes, like flowers, 
bloom and fade, leaving others to renew the 
light they give along life's way that turns night 
into day. 

AFTER-THOUGHTS 

There is cold in this world that no fire can 
relieve. There is thirst in this world that no 
water can relieve. There is hunger in this world 
that no food can relieve. There are aches in this 
world that no balm can relieve. Oh, to think of 
the suffering and pain in this world that none of 
the wealth in this world can relieve! Oh, to 
think of the sufferings and pain in this world 
that the voice of one heart in this world could 
relieve ! 

Let me think of it but so, and be at rest : the 
bitter words he hurled at me, his friend, they 
were not his, but rather of a strange uncanny 
spirit that stole his tongue ; the fiends work some- 
times thus; and I should be assisting them, did 
I take those words as his. 

13 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



The sword that pierces through my heart 
strikes through the hearts of others; there is no 
solitude anywhere, except for those that have 
never suffered. 

Many an unskillful gardener destroys the roots 
of choicest flowers in his garden; many an un- 
skillful teacher destroys the roots of choicest 
natures in his school. 

To be an old man, while your life is young, 
with troubled thoughts, and dreamings dark and 
wild, with ghosts surrounding you all night and 
day — this is remorse, remorse. No breeze can 
cool you, and no fire can warm; no balm can 
soothe you, and no medicine cure; no sun can 
brighten, and no star give hope — ^this is remorse, 
remorse. The world is all a charnel house for 
you, and nature breathes forth naught- but 
tragedy ; each flower blooms to decorate a grave ; 
and the winds chant only dirges for lost souls — 
this is remorse, remorse. 

If a dream for a moment can brighten your 
eye — fool, fool, if you cast away dreams! If a 
dream for a moment can quicken your step — if 
a dream for a moment can straighten your back 
— if a dream for a moment can mellow your 

14 



Shadows on the Wall 



laugh — fool, fool, if you cast away dreams. If a 
dream for a moment can smooth your rough skin 
and turn frowns and furrows into dimples and 
smiles — if a dream for a moment can chase 
ghosts from your heart — if a dream for a moment 
can change death into life — if a dream for a 
moment can make heaven of hell — fool, fool, if 
you cast away dreams ! 

There are things that no power on earth can 
tell us — not even the boasted wisdom of the East. 
No brain can e'er tell us why some souls must 
suffer — ^too often, the gentlest — from their cradles 
to their graves. No seer can tell us why the 
noblest ambitions that fulfilled would brighten 
this world with hope, must stumble and fall on 
the rocks of life 's roadway, and there perish from 
lack of nourishment and care. No book can tell 
us why arrogant injustice sits on the thrones of 
opportunities to condemn, or why fools rule as 
sovereigns and judges, and why wise men must 
bend their knees to clowns. No Solon and no 
Solomon can give to us the reason why the 
meanest spirits jingle the most coin, or why 
imbeciles are robed in silk and satin, and are 
wreathed with flowers like tributes to a tomb. 
There is no mortal with the learning of the 

15 



Shadows on the Wall 



ancients, or with the upstart teachings of the day, 
who can tell why men and women flee to sin for 
rest and comfort, while virtue sees them pass 
with cold disdain. 

With the dust of your murdered dreams 
stifling your heart, and the fragments of your 
broken ideals scattered about your feet, and the 
ghosts of your past mistakes ever pointing their 
ghastly fingers at your breast, and your every 
breath yearning for the peace of death — still to 
live, at the inexorable bidding of duty — is not 
this the height of heroism? 

Who am I, that I should expect not to suffer, 
when there's no human life that in some way 
does not suffer? Who am I, that I should hope 
not to sin, where there's no one on earth not in 
some way a sinner? Who am I, that I should 
rail at my ghosts of ambition, when the world is 
one vast sepulchre for ashes of dead dreams? 
Am I a god, that I must not suffer? must not 
fail, must not sin? Oh, conceit and maddest of 
all to grumble ! I am human ; I must suffer ; I 
must fail ; I must sin. 

Beware of asking personal questions, for you 
know not what dark shadow they may invoke, 

16 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



what pain, what sorrow almost forgotten, your 
question may arouse from the dead. For so many 
of us are often struggling to escape from ghostly 
thoughts, and we cannot feel kindly toward you, 
if you bring them back to us. 

Happiness lies in the word congeniality — 
congeniality of company, congeniality of atmos- 
phere, congeniality of work. 

Some lives are frail barks on the sea of 
adversity, ever tossing upon its wild waves ; they 
know not how a quiet ride might feel; a calm 
would be more ominous than a storm; and they 
at last become used to their tempestuous voyage, 
and the roaring of the waves soothes them to 
sleep. 

To cast out sin, you must first feed hungry 
hearts; Christ sympathized with sinners; there- 
fore he saved them. 

One word or clasp of gentle sympathy can 
save more souls than can all the homilies. 

The strongest weapon against insanity is a 
kind and loving heart. 

17 



Shadows on the Wall 



My health and my fortune are not in my 
power to control; but of my disposition I am 
master, and disposition makes our lives either 
happy or unhappy, just as we will : I can turn 
by the color of my disposition my life into 
brightest morning or darkest night. 

How often does a headache mean a heart- 
ache; and how often does a curse choke down 
a sob. 

The true poet, like the song bird, sings because 
he cannot help but sing, whether he wills or no ; 
he questions not wherefore, or audience, or fee; 
he gives forth but the voice of his heart. 

What are insects of the air but nature 's winged 
weeds and flowers ? 

The medicinal spirits of the air are gentle sun- 
shine and soft breeze. 

Many sing to the breaking chords of their 
hearts; many dance to the fever of their pain. 
The blind world condemns, but the audience of 
Heaven applauds the sight of unselfish heroism. 

The rain-drops of adversity soften the good 
soil of the heart and awaken sleeping plants and 
flowers there; but hard soil they make harder 
still. 

18 



Shadows on the Wall 



You that have tasted every sin — you that have 
drunk of every sorrow — ^the more you have 
sinned and suffered, the more should you pity 
mankind. 

It is not what 1 was; it is what I am now: 
yesterday I may have been an outcast, but my 
soul is clean to-day; and no man has a right to 
condemn me for a past God has taken away. 



19 



The Poet 

PERSONS 

Edward Deane, Poet and lawyer 
William Deane, His cousin 
Esther McClain, A school-teacher 

Scene: A lawyer's office in Louisville^ 
Kentucky. 

Time : Autumn of 1907. 

The scene is a small room scantily furnished. 
In front of a desk, a reclining chair. In the 
corner, a small bookcase, with many empty 
shelves. 

(Edward Deane comes into the room.) 

Edward. Tired, tired, and discouraged ( throw- 
ing himself into the chair) ! That is the gloomy 
truth. At least be honest with myself, and rest 
from irksome pretense. To say, in answer to 
the inane question, "How's the book?" ''Why, 
very well; the sales are fair" even while I 

20 



Shadows on the Wall 



wonder if a single copy has been sold, besides 
the ones that love and friendship bought— my 
mother, Will, and she,— is a weary part to play. 
My mother-^bless her dear old-fashioned shawl ! 

I found a volume underneath its folds; 

impish perversity did lead me there to break the 
dream I had of some book-lover touched by my 
thoughts that spoke to him or her. Dear, 
generous hearted Will ordered a dozen copies, 
and she whose name I cannot utter without 
trembling, did the same; and they would buy 
them all, had they the means to do so, these three 
and only stars of my life's night. Well, I have 
failed, as poet and as lawyer, could the failures 
for a moment be compared. It was mistaken 
choice that made me lawyer, but poet was thrust 
on me with my birth— a burden, vice, incurable 
disease ; I could not help but dream and write, 
whether I would or no; I could not help but 
struggle, suffer, hope, and make mistakes, and fail. 
What's this {picking up a letter) ? The rent is 
long past due, and I must settle by this week, or 
else vacate. Here is another, the telephone 
service will be discontinued, if the bill's not paid 
to-morrow. Well, that will keep my creditors 
from calling me up ; not such a bad threat, that. 
And yet again; the printer's account — for letters 



21 



Shadows on the Wall 



that brought no return — will be turned into a 
lawyer's hands; another wasted letter for a 
lawyer. Crows — crows of adversity! how they 
flock around and croak in blackest numbers when 
the heart is always saddest ! Did they but know 
how I would love to pay them! to hurl the coin 
into their ravenous maws, and let them gorge 
themselves until they burst their pouches! and 
how the spirit of my independence is staJbbed 
each time I pray for lenity ! They surely know 
that poets have no money, or lawyers either, 
until they are old and broken ; success will come 
to neither without death — ^death to the poet's 
body, death to the lawyer's heart; and I'm still 
young in years as years are counted, and my 
sympathy still lives ; how can I have money ? 
Ah me, that pain again, that almost stops my 
breathing! yet not so sharp as each day's dis- 
appointment or as the sword-thrust sensitive- 
ness feels. To be compelled to bend your head, 
when you are itching to raise your hand, to make 
excuses when your arm would strike, to utter 
pleas for mercy and swallow the curses on your 
lips — these are torments of the damned uncon- 
ceived by the genius of Dante! And I can 
understand too well — too bitterly well— that 
desperate sensitiveness would rather sell its very 

soul than beg. 

22 



Shadows on the Wall 



That pain ! that pain ! each time it leaves me 
weaker. Perhaps it is the warning bell of death. 
Well, let it warn; for what else could I do? I 
am a poet, with a poet's tragedies. I could not 
help hut do that which I did; I could not help 
but dream, and with my dream eyes stumble 
upon earth, and choose the hardest road in life 
to earn a living— that of a lawyer with a poet's 

heart. 

But what is it that makes life fascinating even 
in its greatest pain, but the faces that I love and 
that do hover o'er me constantly— my mother's, 
Will's and hers; and therefore life, with all of 
its sharp ills, is precious till those faces fade 
away. Ah me ! Ah me ! the hopes and dreams I 
had of them, that some day— some day— we could 
dwell together, she as my wife and heart-mate, 
angel and guiding star,— with her, my adored 
mother, and loyal Will. With love and friend- 
ship at my side, could earth give greater treasure 1 
But oh, that dream is fading, even with my life ! 
That pain again, and its succeeding weakness! 
but a few more such, to strike the fatal blow. 
She always understood me— my moods and my 
emotions— oh, the celestial happiness in being 
understood ! But I locked my soul's words from 
her, waiting for the golden hour when fortune 



23 



Shadows on the Wall 



would become weary of hurling stones at me, 
and instead throw a few roses ; but fortune never 
changed her whim, and the stones fall thicker 
and faster; and so for the very sake of love, I 
must keep the words of love I would utter, 
buried. 

{The telepJione rings.) Another croaking 
crow! Well, I might just as well answer, or it 
will be flapping its wings up here. {Walking 
totteringly to the phone.) Is it you, Will? Am 
I busy ? What a joke ! I wish I were. What is 
the matter with my voice ? Why, nothing what- 
ever; it must be the fault of the phone. You'll 
be at my office in a few minutes ? Wait for you ? 
Of course, you know I will. 

{Walking y almost falling on the way, hack to 
the chair.) The dear old boy! with his discern- 
ing sympathies ! He knew at once I was not well, 
and I have but to let slip a little word about my 
troubles, and he would be emptying his purse at 
once to help. 

{Enter William Deane, hurriedly.) 

William. I hurried up as fast as I could, for 
I have only a short time to stay. I want to talk 
to you about a little matter — I want to ask a 
favor of you. But stop ! I had better not worry 

24 



Shadows on the Wall 



you about it now ; you don't look well ; how pale, 
old man, you are ! What you need is a rest, my 
boy ; you 've been working too hard on your book ; 
what you need is a rest and fresh air. 

Edward (aside). I will soon have plenty of 
rest. (Aloud.) I am not sick. Will; you know 
I never have heen strong. But tell me about this 
favor; you know it is granted even before it is 
asked. 

William. It is this, old boy ; you are a poet, 
and I know from the tone of your book that you 
understand such things as sentiment and love, 
though you may not be in love yourself, and a 
man can talk to you as he could not talk to 
others, for he might be regarded by them as a 
fool. I know this — that you'll not laugh at me, 
and that you'll help me if you can. I'm in love, 
boy, and I need your good wishes and help. 

Edward. Dear old boy (grasping William's 
hand) ! How happy you make me! I've been 
thinking ahout you all day, and on that very 
subject! What an ideal companion to a sweet 
girl you would be 1 There is no reason why you 
should not marry, you with your fine strong 
health and common sense, and affectionate dis- 
position, and with financial means to take care 
of a good wife. Wlioever she may be, I know 

25 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



that she is worthy of you, for your affections 
could not lead you astray ; and if she loves you, 
too, as I am sure that she must do, do not loiter, 
but seize your happiness at once. 

William, I have never told her that I loved 
her ; I believe she cares for me, but I am not sure. 
I have known her for several years, but when I 
would attempt to express my feelings, she would 
always change the subject, or seem not to 
understand. 

Edward. Don't you know women better than 
that, old man? They love to be pursued; they 
always pretend not to understand in order to 
make the wooer desperate. Do not falter, old 
man — ^do not falter; tell her your happiness, 
your life itself depends upon her answer, and 
I'm sure that you'll receive the answer that you 
crave. 

William. That is what I want you to do for 

me. Be a good fellow, and help me out. You 

know her in a way even better than I do; you 

understand each other so thoroughly; you have 

so often talked and read poetry together, and 

have congenial sympathies. You with your 

poetic and tactful tongue could say a few 

opportune words for me and discover whether or 

not I should meet with a rebuff did I open my 

heart to her. 

26 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



Edward {aside). There is only one that he 
can mean; my last and brightest dream is fad- 
ing. {Aloud, hut faintly.) It is Esther McClain, 
you mean? 

William. Who else but her ? I did not think 
it necessary to mention her name. But I'm a 
brute to trouble you just now; you're sick, old 
man. What can I do for you? Let me call a 
cab and take you home. 

Edward. And worry my poor mother? 
{Aside.) Yet it had best be so; my love which 
in this world I never can enjoy must not be 
known to her or anyone at all. He'll take good 
care of her and make her happy, and end her 
drudging life of teaching. {Aloud.) In the 
pigeon hole there in my desk is a small bottle 
of ammonia water; spill a few drops upon my 
handkerchief, and spread it on my forehead — 
that feels good; I'm better now. Yes, I will 
speak to Esther for you, Will, and open for you 
the door of her heart. 

William. You are the best old fellow in the 
world. I must be going now, but I'll be back 
promptly at six; and promise me that you will 
wait for me and we'll ride home together. 

27 



Shadows on the Wall 



Edward. You can depend upon it, Will; I'll 
wait till you return. 

(William Deane goes out.) 

Edward. Well, if I can't be happy myself, I 
can at least make others happy. That is all that 
the failed can do. {He hears a knocking at the 
door.) What new crow of adversity? I cannot 
cope with it now. Let it croak until it breaks its 
throat. (Sinking hack in his chair and closing 
his eyes.) 

(Enter Esther McClain.) 

Esther (aside). How deathly pale he is! It 
is well that I have come. "Always trust your 
emotion," says Emerson. I should have obeyed 
its voice before this. I am afraid to startle him. 
I have been told that if you look steadily at 
sleepers, they will awaken. 

Edward. Am I dreaming in the world of life 
or world of death ? 

Esther (kneeling doivn heside Edward and 
clasping his hand). Do not speak in that way, 
Edward; of course, you are in the world of the 
living, and looking in the face of one who under- 
stands you as no one else on this earth can ever 
do. Awake — but not from your dreams, for you 
are a poet, and cannot help but dream — but from 

28 



Shadows on the Wall 



the dark shadows of sleepland. I have been 
thinking about you all day long. You remem- 
ber how we have talked about these strange 
mysterious things, and agreed that the thoughts 
of congenial spirits could converse with each 
other more readily than tongues? 

Edward, There 's no doubt about that ; there 's 
no doubt about that. {Aside.) That is why I 
kept my thoughts of her buried. 

Esther. We therefore can speak frankly with 
each other, for we understand one another's 
heart. And it is of your heart that I wish to 
speak; that is why I came here, Edward. 

Edward. My heart is composed solely of my 
love for my friends, my three friends that alone 
brighten my life. 

Esther. It is composed of one more sub- 
stance ; of love, of yearning, burning love, above 
all the friendship-love you speak of, for the 
responsive love of a woman — of your soul com- 
panion. You know it, Edward; you know that 
to be true; and from foolish pride alone do you 
struggle to conceal it, and burn your life away. 
There's one you love; you have betrayed it in 
your writings — in every line of sorrow and of 
joy. There's one you love, for whose sympathetic 



29 



Shadows on the Wall 



warmth your heart and life itself are freezing, 
dying. 

Edward {aside). To fight my fiercest battle 
when I am weakest ! {Aloud.) You should write 
poetry yourself, Esther. 

Esther. I would rather live poetry than write 
it, and that is what I want you to do. You are 
pale; you are ill; you need rest and change of 
scene. Throw your musty theories away and live 
your natural dreams. I understand it all ; I have 
understood it longer than you thought I did; I 
am your friend, and a woman, and you need not 
speak to let me know. You own but little of the 
world's goods; what is called material success 
does not come early in life to poets; you are 
fretted with the annoyances of debt, and your 
health is not of the strongest. But a woman who 
truly loves does not look on these things as 
obstacles, when she appreciates the abilities of 
him she loves, and her supreme happiness would 
consist in assisting him to bear his troubles, and 
in aiding him to ascend from them ; her sympathy 
would soothe and strengthen him, and give to his 
courage, warmth. Such a woman, I am sure, is 
the woman that you love, and who, I am sure, 
loves you. Besides, I want to tell you that I have 
heard glorious news of your book. Professor 

30 



Shadows on the Wall 



David spoke enthusiastically about it and so did 
Miss Adams of the Louisville Times, who said it 
was a genuine work of art, and that it was only 
a question of time before it would be recognized 
by the most fastidious of critics. So you see what 
brilliant prospects lie before you; there is no 
reason for discouragement. You have courage, 
but what is needed more than courage is the 
inspiring sympathy of a woman's devoted heart. 

Edward (aside). The sweetest moment of my 
life, just as its door is closing. And oh, my 
promise to Will ! 

Esther. I could not help but talk to you as 
I have been doing; I have been thinking about 
you, Edward, all day long. I want you to tell me 
about it ; I know what is troubling you, Edward, 
more than your financial worries or your pain. 
It is the love of a woman you are suffering for, 
whose love, were it not for your false pride, 
would be yours. 

Edward (aside). Did I fail now, my failures 
would be without redemption and baseness in- 
scribed upon my empty scroll. (Aloud.) Esther, 
you have always been one of my truest friends, 
and with my precious mother and dear Will, the 
only gold that life has given to me. But above 
that friendship-love I have no other, unless it be 

31 



Shadows on the Wall 



my love for poetry, which I cannot help but have, 
for poetry is my nature, my sorrow, my heaven, 
my hell ; and as a poet — you always said I was a 
true one, Esther — I can only love as poets always 
do, and beyond that golden friendship 's love for 
mother. Will, and you, my love is shadow love 
alone — ^dream woman, dream companionship — 
creatures of fancy, no more. So the woman you 
speak of that I yearn for, I never have seen in 
this world ; I have never loved in the way you so 
poetically picture, and it is not in my nature to 
love so. 

Esther {aside). There are lies that are holy, 
parts we play that are divine. {Aloud.) How 
selfish I have been, dear Edward! worrying you 
with my chatter while you are so ill. Let me send 
at once for a doctor, or if you prefer, let me take 
you home in a cab. 

Edv^ard. You worrying me with your talk, 
dear Esther, when your every word is sweetest 
music to my soul ! This is all that I want you to 
do for me — ^do not leave me until six o'clock; it 
cannot be far from that now ; you can tell by the 
court house clock; and after that you can send 
for the doctor and do with me what you will. 
Yes, we have often talked about these things, 
these beautifully mysterious things, — of thought 

32 



Shadows on the Wall 



language between congenial souls — of sympa- 
thetic hearts beholding from afar the pictures in 
each other's reveries, and showing each other's 
yearnings and emotions. And so it has been with 
us, dear Esther; you beheld the picture in my 
reveries of him, my friend and kinsman — 
William Deane — whom as brother I could no 
more love — burning his life away for the woman 
you so picturesquely describe — ^the woman who 
would care nothing for lack of health or the 
poverty of her soul companion and who would 
transfer his life into heaven. It was the picture 
of my dreamings that impressed itself on you, 
dear Esther; soul visions are greater than 
science; it was the picture of Will longing for 
you. There is something else I wish to tell you, 
Esther. I do not believe that we ever talked 
about it before, but it is another one of those 
mysterious truths which never can be explained. 
It is this, dear Esther, it is this; that at times, 
unknown to ourselves, love for another is con- 
cealed in our heart, and that is the reason of that 
other's love for us which we can not for a while 
understand. For love has a secret language of 
its own and flashes forth messages of which our 
thoughts may not be aware. Will you promise 
to look into your heart for the love which has 



Shadows on the Wall 



been communing with the love in the heart of 
Will? 

Esther {aside). And must it then he so? I 
cannot share his love on earth, but I can share 
his sacrifice, and take up the cross he is about to 
lay down? {Aloud.) I understand it all. I 
promise you that I will search for the love which 
you say is concealed in my heart for Will. 

Edward {feebly). The clock strikes six, does 
it not ? You can send for the doctor now, if you 
will. 

(Esther hastens toward the phone.) 
{Enter Will.) 

Will {unperceiving Esther). How are you 
feeling now, old fellow? 

Edward. I kept my promise, Will. I opened 
the door of her heart for you. Do not fail to 
always keep it open. 

Esther. Doctor James will be here in a 
moment, and I ordered a cab to take you home. 
Oh, Mr. Dean ! Will ! I 'm so glad you have 
come. I am afraid that he is very ill ! 

{Almost instinctively, Esther and Will kneel 
doivn at the side of Edward, clasping each 
other's hands.) 

Edward. I am glad that you both are here. 
You say that I need a rest. I am going to take 

34 



Shadows on the Wall 



it now. I am going to travel. Will you look 
after my dear mother while I am gone ? Tell my 
landlord that I am vacating my office. Call up 
the telephone company and tell them that they 
can discontinue their service at once. Tell the 
printer that he can take his judgment against me, 
and gain out of it whatever he can. I am going 
to albandon the practice of law forever. I am 
going to devote myself to the life of poetry which 
I had always hoped and dreamed to do. I have 
gathered a few vines and flowers from the garden 
of pain and adversity, and I am going to take 
them along with me — that is all that I have to 
take along — to lay at the feet of Poetry. I can 
give you nothing, dear friends — nothing as part- 
ing souvenirs. All that I have is mortgaged or 
at the pawn shops ; see the empty shelves of my 
book-case ? I leave nothing here but the gold of 
love and friendship, which will return to me. 



35 



The House of Tragedy 

PERSONS 

Mary De Haven 
Francis St. Clair 
Aunt Edith 
Jean Lebree 

Act I 

Scene I: The sitting room of a large 
old-fashioned house, in a wild 
and hilly part of Kentucky. 

Time : Summer of 1905. 

(Mary De Haven is sitting before a small 
table, on which a lamp is dimly burning, in deep 
and brooding r every.) 

The ways of life are very strange; I cannot 
understand them; though I have lived these 
thirty years, they are always stranger, — ^stranger. 
Why is it I must shun mankind, liked a banned 
and hunted felon — I who could never harm a 

36 



Shadows on the Wall 



weed, even though I wished to do it ? Why is it, 
I must bear the brunt of my family's weird 
calamity, and spend my days guarding the door 
of a skeleton in the closet? I've never known a 
joyous hour; I've never known careless child- 
hood ; from infancy, I 've borne the load of this 
household's heavy tragedy. The clock strikes 
nine ; 'tis almost gone, the twentieth anniversary 
of the entrance into this sad home of the horrible 
dark spectre. Can I forget that awful night — 
those hell-conceived moments — when my father, 
with face of the damned, made the appalling 
announcement, that my mother had brought into 
the world a frightful, living child-monster! I 
can hear myself, with horror-chilled voice, re- 
peating the oath dictated by my father to con- 
ceal forever from all human knowledge, the 
nightmaric curse that had befallen our proud 
house. I can see the country vehicles and rigs 
following the hearse that bore away my mother; 
I can feel the gruesome secret bound and fettered 
by my father. Doctor Bates, my aunt, and me. 
I can hear the rapid building of a tower on the 
center of the roof of this old house ; I again see 
it turned into a padded chamber, and into a 
guard-house for the unwelcome freak. I hear my 
father's cry of satisfaction — it sounded like a 

37 



Shadows on the Wall 



fiend's laugh o'er a prize — when word came to 
us early one cold morning that Doctor Bates 
during the night had died. I see my father, with 
ghoulish expression, scanning the faces of my 
aunt and me when ill, as though he were 
unnaturally waiting for death to help him screen 
his wounded pride. I see my home becoming 
isolated, thanks to its strange inhospitality ; I 
feel the presence of dread and suspicion, and 
each visitor regarded as a spy. 

I feel the hour of ghastly relief when my 
father's bleeding body reached the spot where T 
now sit reviewing the unhappy scenes that 
memory forces on my fevered brain. Following 
with frenzied fear a shadowy figure born of his 
mad delusion, nothing more, he fancied peeping 
through the parlor door, he stumbled on the 
track and met his doom by being crushed beneath 
the midnight train. A sickening, hideous, and 
unnatural sensation, that of a parent's death 
bringing no tears! Could there be a more 
uncanny fate than mine ! A child not able to 
weep o 'er its father 's bier ! 

{Aloud.) Is that you, dear Aunt? I thought 
I heard a door. These memories play havoc with 
my nerves. It is a wonder that I am not mad as 
the wild creature in the tower above. 

38 ' 



Shadows on the Wall 



There are saints in this dark world unean- 
onized, allied nearer to angels than to men. 
Aunt Edith is one of those holy beings; a halo 
must invisibly crown her head. What other man 
or woman can you dream of, who, for the love 
of a dead sister, gave up life and happiness to a 
tomb forever — the tomb of guardianship over a 
family's shame! Who else, but her, would tend 
and feed a monster — simply because it was a 
sister's child — a monster with the body of a 
woman, but with the head and features of a 
brute — one that instead of speaking, snarls and 
barks, and must be clad in leather lest it rend 
its flesh and clothes ? Day after day for twenty 
harrowing years — devoted to her task as to a 
shrine! I thought I heard its bark out in the 
garden— -that bark that brings me visions of 
unholy sights and deeds— that bark that all these 
years two lonely women hid from the ears of all — 
except from one ! Yes, there is one that under- 
stands our secret ; of this I 'm as certain as I know 
I breathe ; and one who venerates and respects its 
keeping, and watches o'er it faithfully as we. 
Seven years ago, only a short while after death 
put to rest my father's troubled mind, he came, 
and gently prayed for the position of gardener 
upon this dreary place. I met him first on a trip 

39 



Shadows on the Wall 



to the village ; he held my horse before the 
country store — a raw-boned youth, but with eyes 
of a dreamer that flashed forth glances of 
mysterious depths. His voice was low, but of 
melodious vigor; he asked me where he might 
find certain books ; I told him that I had them in 
my book case, and I brought them with me to the 
village the next day. I never can forget the 
strong impression that overpowered me, as he 
poured forth grateful words, that at that moment 
I had won the friendship of one in whom I could 
trust my life and soul. So when he came to plead 
for the position, I knew he came to favor more 
than sue ; I felt that he was sent for our protec- 
tion, a guardian angel o 'er this house of misery ; 
and from that hour I felt he knew our secret, 
and treasured it as sacredly as we, and by in- 
visible means helped us to hide it, and kept a 
vigil o'er it constantly. And even now, I know 
the lamp is burning in his cabin, as it has burned 
these seven years, like an altar light ( looking out 
the window). Yes, yes, I see it shining! and it 
will shine till break of day. But though a lamp 
burned at your every window, it would not give 
the light that your eyes send, Jean Lebree, 
through my dark and troubled memories like 
beacon rays to a storm-tossed ship at sea. 

40 



Shadows on the Wall 



{Enter Aunt Edith, tottering and liolding 
her hands to her head. She sinUs on her knees at 
Mary's feet,) 

Aunt Edith. It was not my fault ! it was not 
my fault ! I could not help it ! No, I could not 
help it! 

Mary {throwing her arms about her aunt's 
neck and kissing her passionately) . Your fault, 
dear aunt! your fault, dear saint! No matter 
what may have happened, it could not be your 
fault! Brave, patient, self-sacrificing, angelic 
Aunt Edith ! No, no, no, no, no, no ! If it be 
the fault of any one at all, it must be surely 
mine — mean, thoughtless, selfish creature that I 
have been ! always complaining of my lot in life, 
and not helping you to bear yours ! 

Aunt Edith {slowly, and with difficulty). 
After all these years — these twenty years — and 
on this night, that it should have happened! I 
felt a numbness stealing over me — I must have 
fallen asleep — I left the key in the door — I never 
had done so before — in the inner side of the 
tower-room door. When I last looked at her, 
she seemed to be asleep. I awoke with a pain in 
my head — my brain felt like it was burning — 
burning — I could barely move my limbs — I have 
felt those strange spells before, but I did not 

41 



Shadows on the Wall 



wish to worry you about them, Mary. When I 
looked ahout, she was not there. I almost crept 
on my knees down the stairs, and made search 
in all the rooms for her — but I could not find her 
anywhere. She is gone, and after all these years 
— these fearful years — the awful secret will be 
known to all the world ! 

Mary. Do not worry, dear aunt ! we will 
surely find her. She cannot have gone far — she 
does not know where to go. 

Aunt Edith. But I can give you no help ; all 
my strength is taken from me. I feel as though 
struck by a fatal blow. And I must soon leave 
you — Oh, my poor, precious Mary! to bear that 
dreadful life and secret of this tragic house alone ! 

Mary {assisting her aunt to a lounge, and 
tenderly placing her in a recumbent position). 
Listen, dear aunt ! it is time I must tell you ; but 
do not break my heart by speaking of leaving 
me! We have long had a friend, silent and 
devoted, who knows of our secret, and treasures 
it as we. Not a word has he uttered; he has 
never intruded, but has quietly protected us day 
after day. You know whom I mean? Jean 
Lebree, the gardener — you always have liked 
him — I can call him at any need. 

Aunt Edith (faintly, as if falling asleep) . And 

42 



Shadows on the Wall 



he can give you better help than I can give you. 
For I 'm so tired now, Mary — so very, very tired. 
Mary (tvalMng toivard the ivindow) . I did 
not think the time so near when I should have to 
call him. {Calling out the window.) Jean! 
Jean ! Jean ! Jean ! Jean ! Jean ! 

{Enter Jean Lebree.) 

Jean. Do not try to explain it. I under- 
stand it all. I have long known your secret, and 
you know that I know it. Your charge has 
escaped? Do not be uneasy about her. I will 
bring her back to the tower in a very little while. 
You trust me, Miss De Haven? The boy you 
befriended, in the time of his loneliness? the 
time of his need ? 

Mary. Yes, I know that you know it, and 
helped us to hide it. But 'tis not I that be- 
friended you ; 'tis you that befriended me. It 
was only a while since that I was thinking of you 
as a sentinel guarding this house of distress. 

Jean {eagerly). And in those thoughts you 
trusted me. Miss DeHaven? 

Mary. Even with my life. 

Jean {suddenly) . But first of all, look to your 
aunt, Miss DeHaven. I see that she is very, very 
ill. Let me call up the doctor over the country 

43 



Shadows on the Wall 



phone, and tell him to bring his wife along. It 
is not right that you should be alone in this hour 
of sickness and trouble. 

Mary (dazedly, kneeling beside her aunt on 
the couch, and caressing her face and hands). 
Yes, call for the doctor and have him bring his 
wife along; she is a good woman. Yes, Jean, I 
trust you. 

Jean (aside, as he opens the door). Even 
unto death ! for you, for you ! you, that gave to 
me my soul ! 

Scene II : The same. 

(Mary DeHaven, Jean Lebree.) 

Jean. She is safe in the back room of my 
cabin, now. I gave her a heavy opiate; she is 
fast asleep. She will not awaken until afternoon, 
and when all is quiet. 111 bring her back to the 
tower-room. 

Mary. She cannot be brought back for several 

days. Aunt Edith passed away an hour ago. 

The doctor has gone, but his wife is still upstairs, 

and there will be people about the place until 

the funeral is over. Oh Jean, Jean ! what this 

house has brought on you! Better flee from it 

forever, lest its curse overpower you! (Sinking 

upon the lounge, and covering her face with her 

hands.) 

44 



Shadows on the Wall 



Jean. Miss DeHaven, believe me, even as I 
know you trust me, the only happiness of my 
life has been connected with this house. I never 
knew my parents; they died when I was a baby 
soon after they reached the shores of this coun- 
try, and I was left to the grudging care of an 
aunt. My childhood passed away without affec- 
tion; I was taught but little more than to read 
and write; I was sent out into the world to earn a 
living, at an age when I should be at school in 
the infant class. One day, at the factory 
where I was working together with an army of 
children slaves, I was told that my services were 
no longer needed, and in a rage, my aunt turned 
me away from her door. So I wandered, cold 
and hungry, through the streets of Louisville, 
until I was arrested for the crime of having no 
home; the police court judge was about to send 
me to an institution, when a man in the court 
room offered me a home — a nice home, as he 
expressed it, in the country; but what the man 
meant was, he needed a drudge. The judge gave 
me a lecture and a warning, but nothing at all 
to soothe my hunger pains; I became a farmer's 
little beast of burden, treated as though I were 
without heart, mind, or soul, and moulded, like 
so many other farm boys, into a sullen animal, 

45 



Shadows on the Wall 



no more; until I reached the age of nearly eigh- 
teen, when I left the farm and became a clerk in 
the country store. And to that store I can at 
least be grateful, though my life there was little 
brighter than on the farm, for it was there I 
found on sale several school-books, and at night 
when the village slept, I read them through. But 
these books did simply make me discontented ; I 
was fast becoming a misanthropist ; I looked with 
bitterness upon all human beings; the spirit of 
anarchy was blazing in my breast. Then sud- 
denly, a new world opened to me, the light of 
which charmed my dark moods away; I still 
looked upon life with eyes of sadness, but with 
the sadness born of higher views. You entered 
on the scenes of my heart's anguish, an inspira- 
tion that awakened me from hell, and from the 
very moment that I saw you, the star of hope 
began to illumine my career. Bright, mystical 
intelligence flashed through me that life is a 
tragedy, but tragedy of height, that each one on 
this earth must have a mission, and that peace 
consists in being true to it, though that mission 
be to hang upon the cross. This was the creed I 
read in your expression; this was the creed you 
practiced day by day; this was the creed that 
enveloped you in ermine, and made your every 

46 



Shadows on the Wall 



step that of a queen. Strong yearning took 
possession of my dreamings to be a little worthy 
of that creed, to be prepared to carry out my 
mission to which I eventually would be called. 
That is why I asked you how to obtain the 
classics referred to in the school-books at the 
country store. Then with your face in vision 
ever before me, I waited for the hour of my call. 
Seven years ago, that expectant hour came. 
Sheepville was burning with the news of your 
father's violent death, and the gossips were hold- 
ing high revels. Marvelous were the tales that 
were told of no one being invited to enter the 
house, of no servant remaining long on the place, 
and of hidden, mysterious crimes. But in the 
midst of this babble, I could see only this — two 
brave, helpless women in an unpopular site guard- 
ing a sacred tragedy, misunderstood by the world 
and alone. I came here, and my life began. I 
did not seek to know the sorrow you were hiding ; 
I simply tried to aid you in your heroic work. 
That is why I kept a vigil on all pathways to the 
house, ever ready to give warnings of a visit; 
that is why my lamp stood burning at my window 
every night, as a sign that help was near in case 
of need. 



47 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



Mary. Yes, yes ! that lamp ! that precious 
lamp! how often in my troubled sleep did I 
bless it ! 

Jean. Unsought by me your secret was un- 
folded. One summer night at about the hour of 
ten, I thought I heard a footstep in the garden ; 
I followed a shadow to the side entrance door; 
and as I stood concealed in the grape arbor, to 
see which way the trespasser had gone, I saw the 
door quietly open, and your tragedy stalk out 
into the night. You were stealthily giving your 
charge a daily airing ; your aunt was gently lead- 
ing her by the arm, and you upon the other side 
was watching and listening to detect intruding 
sight or sound. I knelt, almost fearing to 
breathe, lest I disturb you, in the arbor while you 
led your skeleton in the closet to and fro; and 
from that time, every night saw me invisible 
guardsman, ready with my blood, if necessary, to 
defend your secret from mortal eye. This, Miss 
DeHaven, has been my happiness — the only 
happiness I ever have known — to assist in reliev- 
ing the sorrow of this house, and if it needs be, 
to die for it. 

Mary. My God ! My God ! I did not think 
of that ! Suppose that some one saw you carry- 



48 



Shadows on the Wall 



ing away the body of old Matilda, and should 
accuse you of having committed the crime ! 

Jean. The truth would be silenced forever 
then ; so much the better for that. 

Mary. no, no, no, no, no! Anything but 
that ! anything but that ! There surely must be 
some other way — some other means; God would 
never be so cruel as that ! But tell me. tell 
me ! Jean, do tell me ! you are sure there was 
no one about ? 

Jean. To see who killed poor old Matilda? 
None but I saw the deed; on my knees I could 
swear to that. 

Mary. But to see you carrying away the dead 
body? Are you as sure, Jean — are you as sure, 
Jean, — of that ? 

Jean. I was not so carefal to be assured 
about that as I was to be certain that none but I 
witnessed the deed. 

Mary. But was there much light at the time ? 
Could it have been seen from afar? At what 
time, did you tell me, it happened? 

Jean. It must have been near to three o 'clock. 
All night I was tracing her through the woods, 
over the farm. She had the subtle movements of 
the fox, and were it not for her snarl and bark, 
I never could have found her. The dawn was 

49 



Shadows on the Wall 



slowly peeping over the knob, when I heard her 
snarl, like a furious dog's, by the barn; when I 
rushed there, she was on the back of- Matilda, 
choking the old woman to death. I could release 
her grip only by clutching her throat, and I was 
wondering what I could do with her, when she 
began to snatch the eggs out of the basket at 
Matilda's feet, which Matilda had just been 
gathering. 

Mary. The poor old darky ! Our vices make 
our fate. For many years she has been in the 
habit of stealing eggs, and for that purpose she 
came so early to the barn. But you were saying, 
she began to snatch the eggs ? 

Jean. And to greedily devour them, shells 
and all ; it is evident for that reason she attacked 
the old woman. I had no trouble at all in leading 
her into the cabin, she swallowing eggs all the 
time. 

Mary. We never could give her eggs enough, 
and she always would snatch them out of our 
hands ; the sight of the eggs, no doubt, enraged 
her, 

Jean. So I left her in the cabin still swallow- 
ing eggs; I burned the basket, and barred all 
doors and shutters ; then I hurried back to look 
after Matilda. There was no doubt at all of her 



50 



Shadows on the Wall 



being dead ; she had died without a struggle ; the 
attack was so fierce and deadly. 

Mary. Thank God, she did not suffer then! 
the poor old soul! she did not suffer! How 
gladly I would have given her all the eggs upon 
the place ! 

Jean. There was but little weight to old 
Matilda. I carried her easily to the shed over the 
old well — ^the well that has been dry for years, 
and which no one has occasion to visit. After the 
funeral, I will bury the body. 

Mary. I know not what to do ; I know not 
what to say. I can give you no help at this 
moment. I can only pray you to promise me 
this — ^be careful, Jean, be careful. {Clasping 
Jean hy the hand.) 

Jean. I promise you that even unto death, 
I will keep watch over this house's tragedy. 
{Leaving the room slowly.) 

Mary. He does not understand ! He will not 
understand! Glod, have mercy, mercy! {Sink- 
ing on her knees.) Hear me, God! If there 
must be more misery, more pain and sorrow flow- 
ing from this house's awful curse, let it shower 
on my head alone — on mine, on mine, the last 
and solitary member of this unhappy family, 
and on none other! Let the martyrdom be all 

51 



Shadows on the Wall 



mine, and mine alone! God, have mercy, 
mercy ! Hear me, God ! Hear me, if you can, 
shade of my wretched father! I will be true 
unto the last unto my fearful oath that turned 
my childhood into unnatural age and all my 
being into a ghastly sepulchre, though it inflict 
upon me purgatorial torments, and hell in fright- 
ful and abhorrent manner ! I will be true ! be 
true ! But I will not, while there is breath within 
me — while I have power to speak, write, make a 
single sign, permit an innocent soul to suffer for 
this tragedy! If there be no other way, I will 
declare that I myself did commit the murder, and 
if it needs be, die for it ! Here on my knees, I 
swear it, God ! Here on my knees, I swear it ! 

Scene III: The same. 

(Mary DeHaven, alone.) 

Mary. And so it had to come. There is no 
other way. He must not suffer for his loyalty. 
The body has been discovered, and suspicion falls 
on him ; and now, at any moment, I must swallow 
the bitterest dregs of my fate. ( Walking to the 
window.) And there he is, still working in the 
garden, unmindful of the lowering storm. There 
seems to be a smile upon his countenance, an 
illumination of triumphant peace. Those people 

52 



Shadows on the Wall 



— what are they doing here ? They pass him with 
insolent gait. And, God! there is the sheriff 
under the old beech tree, as if he were owner of 
the place ! and talking to him, St. Clair ! Francis 
St. Clair ! How I always despised him, with the 
sinister look he would cast at me, as if there 
were a guilty secret between us; and especially 
on the funeral day, what uncomfortable feelings 
overpowered me, when he extended his sympathy ! 
What a leering expression he had in his eye! 
Can he be at the bottom of this? He has a large 
following of his kind; a lawyer of no mean 
aibility, with a manner that pleases the masses, 
but devoid of all honor or principle, and without 
a penny in his pocket that he has earned. His 
father I hear has disowned him, and he lives by 
his perverted wits. They are pointing to the 
house. The sheriff hands him a paper ; he is com- 
ing to the door. The hour is now at hand ; God, 
give me strength and courage and power to know 
how to act, to save, and at the same time to be 
true! {Seating herself on the lounge.) 

{Enter Francis St. Clair.) 

Francis. I knocked at the door, but you did 

not hear me, and so I just came in. I thoroughly 

understand your nature ; you are one of the most 

sensible women that ever lived ; and for years you 

53 



Shadows on the Wall 



have had a difficult part to play, and you played 
it admirably. You are quick to grasp a point at 
issue ; I feel very certain of that ; and only a few 
words will be necessary to exhibit to you a few 
bare facts. I am only a soldier of fortune, with- 
out a cent in the world of my own; my people 
have cast me off from their bounty, and I am at 
present without a home, and I have only my 
brains to live by and to feed on opportunity. 
And here is an opportunity that greets me — to 
give me a clever wife and comfortable home. I 
have eyes bright enough to locate it, and wit 
enough to master it. What is troubling you now 
is the question how to continue to hide and to 
save; how to keep on concealing your skeleton 
that walked out of the closet one night and pro- 
ceeded to make black mischief, for which an 
innocent person is blamed, and at the same 
time to protect that blameless person from all 
suspicion of guilt. 

Mary {aside). It is money that he wants. I 
have no ready cash—but there is my mother's 
diamond brooch, and Aunt Edith's rings and 
necklace — and I could put a mortgage on this 
land. 

Francis. Yes, here is the opportunity that 
boldly presents itself and there is no possible 

54 



Shadows on the Wall 



chance of my failing to seize it. I am placed in 
the happy position of being the only person who 
can help you in your dilemma — ^of being able to 
save the young gardener and to preserve your 
family secret. I am a lawyer, you know, and not 
such a bad one, but even though I were a bad one, 
that would make little difference in this county, 
where all that is needed to win a case is to 
possess the favor of the officers of the court — 
which I most assuredly do possess, as any one in 
the neighborhood would inform you. It is as 
easy for me to acquit as to convict ; and here is a 
warrant of arrest for Jean Lebree, on the 
grounds of a reasonable suspicion that he is the 
murderer of old Matilda. I am convinced that 
he is innocent of the crime ; I know that it was 
committed by your skeleton in the closet of which 
no one in the world ever dreams, excepting the 
romantic French gardener and myself. But he 
will be easily acquitted, if I should take charge 
of his case, and not tell that I saw him carrying 
away the body of Matilda to the shed of the old 
dry well. 

Mary. He did not commit the deed ! I swear 
it ! I swear it ! 

Francis. You would have no one accuse him 
of having committed the deed, nor would you 
have your skeleton in the closet exposed. 

55 



Shadows on the Wall 



Mary. It is an attorney's fee that you wish 
me to pay you? I have no cash on hand, but I 
could give you my note, which you could easily 
discount. 

Francis. I aim a little higher than that. Miss 
DeHaven; an attorney's fee would not last me 
very long. As I said before, I want a clever wife 
and a home ; I am tired of my stray dog career — 
I want to settle down and manage an estate — -a 
laudable ambition, I am sure. I admire you. Miss 
DeHaven; I have long admired you; I like this 
place. I want to be its manager, and make profit 
out of it for us both — for you, as my wife, and 
for myself. Clearly a splendid, business-like 
arrangement, this; in return for your hand and 
a share in your estate, I save the dreamer, Jean, 
and your secret. 

Mary. And in case of my refusal to enter 
into this remarkable agreement? 

Francis. Jean will spend the end of his days 
in the penitentiary at least, if he does not receive 
the death penalty, as certain as I am admiring 
you, and your skeleton will be introduced to the 
world. 

Mary. But stop ! you may have miscalculated ; 
your card may not be so very fine. How do you 
know but that the person who actually killed 
Matilda may not be ready to confess the crime? 

56 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



Francis. That miserable freak of nature, that 
only snaps and snarls and that cannot utter a 
word ? I saw your aunt leading her out into the 
garden many a night before your moon-struck 
gardener began to act as a guardsman; and I 
know very well that she escaped from the tower 
on the night that your aunt died, and it is the 
most natural thing in the world for me to know 
how to draw conclusions. 

Mary. Suppose it was not she, the freak of 
nature as you call her (even granted that she 
wandered away from her room) and that Jean 
did carry away the body of Matilda, for the sake 
of protecting the murderess, who was none other 
than I, who enraged at the old woman's stealing 
my eggs, struck her harder than I meant to do ? 

Francis. It is you that have miscalculated; 
your card is not at all fine. Who would believe 
your story ? It would be thought that you were 
attempting to shelter your lover. And how 
would your tale prevent Jean from suffering at 
least as an accomplice? For he was attempting 
to conceal the evidence of the crime; and he 
would be dragged down into the mire of shame 
with you. Moreover, how could your boasted 
confession keep your skeleton from being ex- 

57 



Shadows on the Wall 



posed ? Naturally I should feel a little chagrined 
over the loss of my coveted opportunity, and 
have no longer any interest in keeping your 
skeleton in the closet concealed, or in having your 
French guard acquitted. 

Mary. I did not even dream of such villains 
as you existing except in story books and plays. 

Francis. You may apply that name to me, 
if you will ; but I am nothing more nor less than 
a clever business man who knows how to seize a 
favorable opportunity. Thousands of others are 
doing the same thing every day, though the 
opportunities they grasp at may be different in 
color from mine, and they are lauded as being 
most successful and respectable business people. 
To make an advantageous contract is their creed ; 
and though I may not be sitting behind a desk, 
or standing behind a counter, I am a business 
man as well as a soldier of fortune. Moreover, 
all of us are playing a game of cards in this 
world, and the ones that lose call the winner 
villain. 

Mary (aside). It is true that I have miscal- 
culated. I can see no other way. My disgrace or 
death would not benefit Jean, or hide the family 
shame. But he must leave the place ; he must not 
suffer with me, as I fulfill the contract conceived 

58 



Shadows on the Wall 



by hell and necessity. {Aloud.) And if I agree 
to enter into this nefarious contract, what assur- 
ance have I that you will keep your word ? 

Francis. I anticipated that question — a very 
apt and proper one. The word of a sensible 
woman is her bond ; so, if you agree to enter into 
this arrangement so advantageous to us both — or 
rather so necessary to us both — I will at once 
accompany Lebree with the sheriff, and act as his 
attorney, and insist upon immediate trial before 
the County Judge. There being no legal evi- 
dence against the young fellow, — the only evi- 
dence against him being withheld — I will make 
a motion for his instant dismissal, which motion 
will be sustained ; and before to-morrow morning, 
Jean will be free and acquitted, and at liberty to 
go where he will. And when you become my 
wife, why, of course, if for no other motive than 
that of a little natural pride, I will exert my best 
endeavors to conceal the one member of the 
family with which I have become allied, of whom 
I have no reason to be proud ; and I believe that 
I can afford better assistance in keeping the closet 
locked than that of the French dreamer; for 
dreamers have lapses of memory at times, and 
may forget to turn the key of the door. 

Mary. You most assuredly do know your 

59 



Shadows on the Wall 



cards, and play them well ; I see no way of beat- 
ing you; but as you have suggested, this is 
strictly a business arrangement, and is always 
to be treated as such. 

Francis. I understand your meaning; you 
will never be bored by me with expressions of 
love. Love is the sick fever of dreamers, such as 
your French gardener may be afflicted with ; you 
would have more to fear from him in that direc- 
tion. I have never been troubled with that dis- 
ease. We will regard each other always as 
business partners only, looking to our common 
interests alone. 

Mary. There is nothing else for me to do than 
to become a party to this fiend-conceived con- 
tract. As soon as I am certain that Jean Lebree 
is free and acquitted by your promised assistance, 
I will marry you. 

Francis. That will not be later than to- 
morrow morning; we can marry quietly on the 
same day? 

Mary. That is for you to say; attend to the 
necessary arrangements as soon as Jean is 
acquitted and free. 

Francis. I will go at once with Jean with the 
sheriff. Would you care to speak to him before 
we go? 

60 



Shadows on the Wall 



Mary. You may tell him I wish to see him, 
and you had better come back with him. 
(Francis leaves the room,) 

Mary {aside). I had all kinds of horrible 
visions about the end of this house 's tragedy, but 
never such a vision as this. This is more dread- 
ful than prison or death, but a surer way than 
either for the secret and for him — especially for 
him. But he must go at once away, or there will 
be greater tragedy. 

{Enter Francis and Jean.) 
Jean. You wished to see me. Miss DeHaven ? 
Mary. You know Mr. St. Clair, my prospec- 
tive husband ? He is a lawyer, and a very adroit 
one. The sheriff holds a warrant of arrest for 
you on the absurd charge of your having 
murdered old Matilda. Mr. St. Clair wishes to 
act as your attorney ; it is my wish that he do so, 
too. You will be granted an immediate trial, and 
be acquitted in a very short while. Mr. St. Clair 
will accompany you to the court house with the 
sheriff, and save you as much inconvenience as 
possible. Is not that true, Mr. St. Clair ? 

Francis. No one will know that you are a 
momentary prisoner; you will not be compelled 
to be confined in jail; you will remain at the 
home of the sheriff as his guest, and be at liberty 
in a very short time. 

61 



Shadows on the Wall 



Jean. If it be Miss DeHaven's wish that I do 
so, I will accept your service, Mr. St. Clair. 

Mary. You could not meet with speedy jus- 
tice without the aid of an attorney, and you can 
find no more serviceable one, in this instance, 
than Mr. St. Clair. 

Jean. Then I am ready to go with the sheriff 
at any moment. 

Francis. Meet me at the gate when you are 
ready to start. {Leaving the room.) 

Jean. I was prepared for another way. Is it 
yet too late for that ? I was prepared to die for 
you, but instead, shall I live for you ? 

Mary. Jean, believe me, and trust me, as I 
have trusted you ; this is the only way out ; and 
you must leave this place as soon as the court 
releases you. This is my wish — my sad heart's 
wish. Do not ask me wherefore, but go. 

Jean. I ask you only this — is there nothing 
I can do ? My life-blood is ready — imprisonment 
is ready — is happily ready — if that can save you. 

Mary. Could the shedding of blood avail, how 
gladly would I offer up mine ! Could public 
shame or imprisonment avail, how gladly would 
I flee to it! No, there is nothing for you to do 
but to leave this house of misery! This is my 
wish, my, prayer. {Clasping Jean's hand.) 

62 



Shadows on the Wall 



Jean. Then I will go. But as I said, three 
days ago, when you bade me promise to be care- 
ful, I say again. Miss DeHaven — I say again that 
I promise that I will keep watch even unto death 
over this house's tragedy. You said that in your 
troubled sleep you often blessed the lamp that 
was burning at my window. While it will not 
be shining there, it still will be shining — always 
shining — somewhere — somewhere. Think of it as 
always shining, always shining as a light to show 
you that I still am near you, ready at any 
moment to come to you. You have only to call, 
even if but in your dreams — you have only to 
call; always remember that, and if I still be in 
this world, I will come. {Leaving the room 
slowly.) 

Mary. Jean ! Jean ! There is so much I would 
say to you. There is so much I could say to you ! 
But you understand — -you always did understand 
— you know what I would say ! Oh, never can I 
fail to see the light of your lamp burning as it 
used to do, nor fail to find hope and comfort in 
watching it and blessing it as I used to do ! 

Jean. I understand it all. Think of my lamp 
as forever burning. 



Shadows on the Wall 



Act II 

Scene I : The same as in Act I. 
(Enter Francis St. Clair.) 

(Francis approaches a table in the center 
of the room, and glances over the papers 
scattered on it.) 

Francis. The deed still unsigned! What 
game can she be up to? Well, she will sign it, 
and before this night is over, if I have to guide 
her hand to make her do it. This deal must be 
settled before to-morrow ; I must have the money, 
and get out of this country ; it is growing a little 
too hot for me here. Of course, I'll have to take 
her along for a while ; but, damn it all ! for only 
a little while. Well, she has no right at all to 
complain; I kept my part of the contract; her 
fool lover was freed — I wish they both had been 
hung together! — ^^and her skeleton in the closet 
will soon be locked up forever. It is lucky the 
pony had to die at this time, but it is hard on 
poor Flossy that they must be buried together; 
I had many a jolly old fox hunt with her, and it 
really does not seem that I am treating her right. 
But it cannot be helped. Flossy, old girl; you 
must help me out this time as you did many a 
time before, when I mortgaged you to creep out 

64 



Shadows on the Wall 



of scrapes. I might as well finish the dirty work ; 
I'll go up to the tower and tie the skeleton in the 
sack, and when it gets a little darker, I'll throw 
her into the unfilled hole with poor Flossy, and 
cover them up together. {Leaving the room.) 

{Enter Mary, from another door. She sits 
down in the armchair beside the table.) 

Mary. Three years of nightmarie martyrdom 
have almost passed away. They were more 
tortuous than I ever dreamed that they would be. 
The coat of polish that covered his villainy very 
soon wore off, and exposed the ugly form of vile 
brutality; selfishness cannot play the part of a 
gentleman very long; it soon becomes weary of 
its mask. He did in truth carry out his part of 
the contract ; but how, God ! but how ? I did 
not bargain for brutality. The skeleton in the 
closet is now silenced forever; but in what way 
was it silenced, let me not think, or I shall go 
mad ! ! And to be buried in this horrible manner ! 
Who, but the prince of fiends could have pro- 
jected such a scheme as that! To order the 
negroes to dig the grave for the dead pony, to 
lower it into the grave, and to partially cover it 
with earth, and then to bid them leave off the 
work, and to finish it in the morning ! he himself, 
when it is dark, to lay her in the unfilled grave 

65 



Shadows on the Wall 

a^bove the body of the pony and to conceal it with 
earth from sight. Genius of hell! I never 
pitied her until now; she is at least a child of 
this house, and should have decent burial. In- 
stead of the loathing that I gave her, she should 
have had my tears ; for whatever sorrow she 
brought into this house, she was not to blame for 
it, while he, with his Satanic intellect, wounds a 
hundred times a day. Yet, what can I do 1 I am 
bound by the inexorable oath of my childhood, 
of which a devil took advantage. How I hate 
him ! how I hate him ! how I hate him ! What 
an existence it has been ! what an infernal 
existence! Dante could have created such a 
torment for the damned. God, have mercy 
on me ! it has come at last to this, that I can 
understand too terribly how murder may be 
committed; how goaded slaves have killed their 
masters, wives, their husbands, and how those 
who hold souls in their power can be assassinated ! 
God, forgive me ! I have felt as they that gave 
the secret poison or struck the fatal blow to their 
oppressors, and I can excuse the deed ! and I can 
sympathize with darkest crimes of tiie mis- 
treated, and applaud their black schemes of 
revenge ! Yet why do I refrain from extinguish- 
ing these pfurgatorial flames? from ending this 

66 



Shadows on the Wall 



abhorrent life forever ? To do so, I have only to 
comply with his demand — to sign the deed, dis- 
pose of all my property, — ^by signing my own 
death warrant. For that is what it means; to 
sell this place — the cash turned into his hands, 
and pay him for his service — his extra service of 
brutality — and then permit him to drop me, as 
he will soon drop her, into the secret grave. 
Why do I not sign the deed, and end it all? 
What power restrains me? Three times to-day 
did I take up the pen and throw it down again, 
as though my hand were checked by an invisible 
presence. Can it be you, spirit of my wretched 
father, who does not wish to see this property 
conveyed — these scenes of ghostly horror — into 
the hands of strangers? Is it you, unhappy 
father ? Is it you ? And yet — 0, no ! unless your 
nature has entirely changed, you would be 
gloomily pleased to know the skeleton is no more ; 
and you would be assisting me to reach the end 
of life, so that the last of this unfortunate 
house would be unable to reveal the buried 
curse ! 0, no ! it is not you ! it is not you ! In- 
stead, if you could do so, you would be helping 
him to lead me to my doom. Yet I must sign it 
now. I feel his approaching presence. He has 
lost his popularity in this county by shameless 

67 



Shadows on the Wall 



tricks and schemes, and some things he has done 
he can be indicted for. There ^s no way to escape 
him. He is at the door; I feel it by all the evil 
arousing within me, and by the fever of my 
nerves and my bones. 

{Enter Francis.) 

Francis {picking up the papers on the tdbley 
and throwing them doivn angrily) . What do you 
mean by this asinine folly? Did I not tell you 
that I wanted this deal settled by to-night ? You 
have had the whole day to sign the paper, and 
you have not signed it yet. 

Mary {aside). Let me not strike him, Lord! 
Let me not strike him ! {Aloud.) It seems to me 
that I should at least be accorded the privilege 
of taking my time in disposing of all my 
property. 

Francis. What do you mean by that silly 
remark ? We get a good price for it. 

Mary. Why use the word we? You are not 
royal. {Aside.) He does indeed wear the 
ermine of hell. 

Francis. Do you know that you are really 
amusing at times? But you are never so amus- 
ing as when for a moment you think that you 
can thwart my set purpose. Listen to me {grasp- 

68 



Shadows on the Wall 



ing Mary hy the shoulder) . I have been true to 
my part of the contract, have I not ? I have done 
even more than I bargained for. 

Mary. Yes, there was no agreement about 
your extra service of brutality. 

Francis. If you wanted sentiment, you 
should have married your fool gardener. But 
never mind about that now. Who has been keep- 
ing watch over that thing upstairs all these years, 
but I ? Who has had to arrange its secret burial, 
but I ? I have had all the dirty work to do. 

Mary. Naturally, as your hands were already 
dirty before you commenced doing the work. 

Francis. You were very willing, at least, to 
seize these dirty hands to help you out of your 
scrape. Who saved your French guardsman 
from the penitentiary? By the way, I passed 
him on the county road yesterday ; he looked as 
luny as ever. 

Mary {aside). And so it is he that is holding 
back my hand! He said that he would be 
always watching over this house's tragedy! and 
that his lamp would be burning forever! He 
knows of this projected conveyance; he knows 
that it means my doom ; and he has been throw- 
ing the power of his thoughts toward me, for- 
bidding me to sign the deed. He said he would 

69 



Shadows on the Wall 



come at once if I called him, even though I called 
him in my dreams. But he must not come; he 
must not influence me; he must not share my 
sufferings ; he must not add to the tragedy of this 
house. I must not think of him ; I must not even 
dream of him ; I will sign the deed, and end this 
horrible suspense forever. 

Francis. You seem to be somewhat excited at 
the mention of my seeing the gardener. ( Walk- 
ing toward the window.) Of course, under the 
terms of our business-like marriage contract, it 
does not concern me what kind of relations may 
have existed between him and you before our 
marriage, or even after it, for that matter; but 
let me tell you this; he bores me — (a fool always 
did bore me ; I can forgive a man anything but 
his being a fool) and if he worries me again with 
the sight of his presence, I will treat him as I 
would a pestiferous fly. 

Maey {arising from her chair , and grasping a 
heavy vase on the mantel) (aside). I could hurl 
this vase at his head in a moment as he is stand- 
ing there by the window, and end this nightmare 
forever! Control me, Heaven! for I can no 
longer control myself! (The vase falls with a 
crash to the floor.) 

Francis. That vase would have brought us at 

70 



Shadows on the Wall 



least two dollars at the auction ; but if it relieves 
your very dramatic humor, break up everything 
in the room. Only, be sure not to destroy the 
deed; it would cost another dollar to have it 
type-written again. 

Mary (aside). I must sign it — and end it all 
—I must sign it, but I must not yield too easily. 
(Aloud.) Is it not dark enough for you to carry 
out your plan of the burial ? To carry out your 
final part of the contract ? As soon as you have 
done it, I will pay you in full for your service — 
your extra service included — ^by signing the deed. 

Francis (eagerly). In that case, it will be 
signed in half an hour. (Leaving the room 
hurriedly.) 

Mary. I must sign it! I must sign it! I 
must sign it! Nothing can save me now! He 
has gone — I hear the door — with his wretched 
burden! (Looking out the window.) Carrying 
her as though she were a sack of corn, and his 
odious pipe in his mouth! She has dwindled 
down into a shadow. Just so, he will carry me — 
very soon, yes, very soon, as he is carrying her, 
at night in some far away spot! 0, God! what 
terror comes over me ! I can see him ! he has 
reached the grave — ^he has already dropped her 
into it — just so, he will be dropping me, smoking 

71 



Shadows on the Wall 



complacently all the while! I hear the earth 
falling upon her — there is not a sound in the air, 
not a single star shining — I hear the earth falling 
upon me — I feel stifled as though in the grave — 
I feel choked — I am smothering, my brain is 
leaving me ! Alone with my impending doom — 
0, God, I can bear no more ! I can not help it, 
God ! I cannot help it ! There is only one in this 
world who can save me! I have tried not to 
think of him! I have prayed not to think of 
him! But I have borne all that a human heart 
can bear ! He said that he would come if I called 
him — I cannot help but call him now ! If I am 
doing wrong, Heaven forgive me! but without 
him, I shall go mad ! Jean ! Jean ! Jean ! Jean ! 
Jean ! Jean ! 

{Enter Jean.) 

Mary. Are you an apparition? or, are you 
still in this life? 

Jean. As yet in this life, as I have been since 
I last spoke to you; ever watching over this 
house's tragedy — ever keeping my lamp burning. 
He is forcing you to dispose of your property? 
I have been helping you to keep from doing so. 

Mary. I know that, Jean — I know that; it 
was you that prevented my signing it. But it 



72 



Shadows on the Wall 



must be signed now, Jean, and in a few moments ; 
I promised him that I would sign it when he had 
finished the final part of his contract. The 
skeleton in the closet died yesterday morning, 
and he is hurying it now, under the old white oak 
at the foot of the hill, and in a dreadful manner 
— think of it ! with his pony ! 

Jean. I will assist him in burying the skele- 
ton in the closet forever — in silencing this house 's 
secret forever. (Leaving the room.) 

Mary. What does he mean? What have I 
done ? My selfishness has invoked the aid of the 
fiends! I have called him here to suffer with 
me, and to add to the clouds of my misery! 
(Looking out of the window.) He is walking 
toward the hill — I dare not call him back ! They 
have met — I hear them talking — I hear a curse — 
it is St. Clair's curse! My God! there are pistol 
shots! (Successive shots are heard.) Someone 
is coming up the path ! If there must be but one 
to come back, God! let it not be St. Clair — 
forgive me, Heaven, if thou canst — but let it not 
be St. Clair. 

(Re-enter Jean.) 

Mary (sinking upon her knees) . Thank God! 

Jean. The skeleton in the closet is buried now 

forever. The dark secret of this house is now 

73 



Shadows on the Wall 



silenced forever. If you still wish to dispose of 
your property, you must have the deed re- 
written, for you alone are needed to sign it now. 

Mary {arising from her knees ^ and stretching 
her hands toward Jean) . Jean! Jean! My head 
is bursting — my heart is bursting — my tongue is 
too paralyzed to utter a word ! But you under- 
stand — you always did understand — take care! 
Jean! take care. 

Jean. The tragedy of this house is ended 
forever. There is no longer any need for me to 
keep watch over it. There is no longer any need 
for me to keep my lamp burning. There is noth- 
ing any more for me to do. (Jean walks toward 
the door, opens it, turns about and raises his 
hands toward Mary as though in benediction, 
looks at her in ecstacy for a few moments and 
leaves the room.) 

Mary {tottering toward the door, and opening 
it). Jean! Jean! I did not understand it until 
now — I did not feel it until now ! You say the 
tragedy of this house is ended? Without you, 
for me the tragedy will have just begun! {A 
pistol shot is heard a short distance away. Mary 
sinks in a swoon to the floor.) 



74 



The Unwelcome Visitor 



PERSONS 

Warwick Duvol, A writer 

Harold Glenn, His private secretary 

Elaine, His daughter 

JosiE, Elaine's maid 

Robert Gray, A reprobate 

Scene: Library in the Devol household, 
along the coast of Maine. 

TiM-E:. 1912. 

(Warwick Duvol and Harold Glenn in deep, 
secretive conference.) 

Harold. There is no other way? Money, of 
course, would simply bring him back again for 
more, and you ever uneasy. No, money will not 
do. But only this, I'd say; if naught but death 
can silence him, why not let the trouble fall on 
me, instead of upon you? 

Warwick {grasping Harold's hand). Un- 
selfish, faithful friend ! who for more than twenty 

T5 



Shadows on the Wall 



years has shared my inmost thoughts and con- 
science! who knows each spot — each tainted, 
blackest spot — of my career, and still supports 
me loyally and tenderly! Had I won nothing 
else in life than this — this golden friendship set 
with diamonds, I'd have achieved the greatest 
wealth that man can gain, and walked a Caesar, 
though in pauper's rags. No, there's no other 
way, and none but I must take it. This you can 
do for me ; I know you'll do it ; see that my wife 
is not disturbed at all, or even knows I have a 
visitor; and keep Elaine and Josie in their 
rooms; say, I'm in mood to write another story, 
and must not be disturbed. You have the choicest 
gift that mortal can be blessed with — ^tact; use 
it to-night, my friend, my strength, my wall. To 
be near, yet not about, to know all, and yet see 
nothing, this is ideallic friendship rare and true ; 
and that, my friend, is you. 

Harold. I'm sure — I need not ask — there is 
no chance to fail. 

Warwick. Unless I lose my senses, there is 
none. Here is the flask — the same he seized last 
night, on the same bracket in the corner here. 
He scented it at once, and with familiarity, he 
clasped it to his lips. 'Twas then I planned the 
way of ending him. This flask is filled with 

76 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



brandy to the brim, and with a drug that never 
fails to kill. He'll seize it quickly, as he did last 
night, and after he has quaffed it to the brim, I '11 
Tiave him take a stroll; I'll lead him down the 
path toward the seaside way, where no one passes 
more than once a day, and that in early morning. 
The drug will take effect soon after he is there — 
just twenty minutes after he has swallowed it! 
(I tried it on my dog an hour ago) and he is light 
of frame and easy to roll off the dark, deserted 
shore; I'll have no trouble in disposing of him 
when he is dead ; it is him living that I fear, and 
not him dead. Yet I wish it need not be; I do 
not hate him. Why must he come to disturb 
me on my way — my bright and glorious way — 
and cast a shadow over my career that all the 
world is envying ? He is not bad at all in heart 
or looks; there's something almost lovable in 
him ; I loved him once, for he was kind in many 
ways to me, and made my life in prison bearable ; 
my fellow prisoner and prison chum was he. 
But here's his crime; that he comes back to me, 
and brings with him the life that I would bury, 
together with the name that I've cast off forever 
— those memories of the past that none but you 
do know of, Harold — ^you, my bosom's confidant, 
who hides them as deeply as I do myself and just 

as reverently. 

77 



Shadows on the Wall 



Harold. You say he is not bad ; then he 's not 
dangerous; can you not talk with him, explain 
your fears and feelings, and bid him as he one 
time loved you, flee from here, your life on which 
you'd have no shadow fall of memories of the 
past. 

Warwick. He is not bad, but he is thought- 
less and emotional, and loves his drink ; thus, far 
more dangerous a sharer of a secret than were he 
Satan's imp. Through idle jest, or spoken re very 
of the past, or moment's grievance, he'd blurt out 
at any hour the incidents of his prison life, and 
comradeship with me ; I 'd ne 'er feel safe while he 
had tongue to speak or power to write a line ; he 
looks on life as an adventure merely, and in his 
moods of reckless gayety, would prate of deeds 
that other men would blush at, and couple mine 
mth his. I 've thought of all ; there is no other 
way but the one that I am taking. I think of my 
career under my present name — the fame of my 
career which is unspotted, my wife, who dreams 
of me as almost godlike, my child who looks upon 
me as her guardian angel, this mansion I've 
created by the sea, and all the world admiring 
and waiting for my pen, and then of him — 
of Robert Gray — ^the sole and fearful him — who 
can throw blackness over all, and cast my glory 

78 



Shadows on the Wall 



into ruins by one word of my past. Shall I risk 
letting Mm live ? 

{Enter Josie, wildly.) 

JosiE. Quick! help! she's gone! I know not 
where ! I could not help it ! she would have her 
way! who can resist her pleadings? She would 
hear what the waves say at eventime. There was 
a hoat — a little row-boat — fastened to the shore ! 
With one leap, she was in it, rocking with the 
waves that battled to unloosen it! I could not 
grasp her hand before I saw her floating off — the 
sea was wild and stormy — I cannot swim — what 
could I do but wring my hands and scream? 
And then one came, a stranger with the blackest 
hair — I saw his hair above the waves — ^^and he 
seized her in his arms, and swam back to the 
shore — her light hair pressing his — ^but she never 
came back to me ! He has gone with her, and I 
know not where! 

Warwick. There is no time to lose ! 

Harold. I will go with you. We will find her 
soon. 

Warwick. No, you stay here. You under- 
stand. If he should come while I'm away, you 
must protect my wife from meeting him, and 
from knowing of this fright. Her heart can 
stand no shock at all, or care. 

79 



Shadows on the Wall 



Harold. I understand and will not leave the 
house till you return. 

(He hastens out of the room with Josie.) 

Harold. Grand, brilliant soul! whom divine 
spirits guard ! why should I fear for you ? The 
gods of genius hover over you with starry guid- 
ance ; you cannot fall ; they will protect you even 
from yourself, if yourself prove unfriendly. 

{Enter Eobert Gray carrying Elaine in his 
arms. He places the child in an arm-chair, and 
with a large bandana handkerchief, he dries her 
face and arms.) 

KoBERT. Now hurry away to mama, and tell 
her to put dry clothes on you. You're not a bit 
scared now, are you? Bless me, but you've got 
your father's eyes. 

Elaine. No, mama must know nothing about 
it. She is always so nervous, you know. But I '11 
tell papa all about how you saved me — ^he 's look- 
ing for me now, I know. And you'll stay here 
with us a long time, won't you? and you'll tell 
me lots of stories like the one you told me when 
you carried me home? (Throiving her arms 
about Robert's neck impulsively.) 

Harold (approaching Elaine, and stroking her 
head tenderly). Your father and nurse are 
almost distracted about you, and they have hur- 

80 



Shadows on the Wall 



ried off to look for you. And this is, no doubt, 
the gentleman who saved you? {Shaking hands 
with Robert.) On behalf of this house, I thank 
you. Your clothes are wet ? I do not think mine 
will fit you, but I can find you some that you can 
wear while yours are being dried. Mr. Duvol 
will be here in a moment; I am his secretary. 
Glenn is my name. 

Robert. Never mind about my wet clothes; 
I am used to them ; this is not the first time I had 
a swim. But what I would like to have is a drink. 
There's some there in the corner, I believe; at 
least, there was a flask on the bracket there, last 
night ; I helped myself to a good swill. 

Harold {fearfully). You say that you were 
here last night, and were you expected to-night ? 

Robert. At aibout this time, I promised to be 
here. I did not expect to come, however, in this 
way. By the way, the little lady should change 
her clothes; you'll get sick, my bird, if you don't 
take them off right away. 

Elaine. I '11 go up on tip-toe to my room and 
put on others outside in the hall. And when I 
come back, you'll tell me another story, won't 
you? What's your name? Mr. Robert Gray? 

Robert. Call me Uncle Bob. That sounds 
better. I wish I had a niece like you. {Kissing 

81 



Shadows on the Wall 



Elaine, who runs out of the room.) How about 
that little drink, old man ? 

Harold. Do I understand that you are Mr. 
Robert Gray, the visitor who was here last night, 
and who was again expected to-night? and you 
are the stranger with the black hair who saved 
the child adrift on the boat ? 

Robert. My hair's black enough; did the 
nurse tell you about it? I almost turned her's 
gray by the fright I had given her. But when 
am I to have that little drink ? 

Harold. And when you saved her, did you 
know whose child she was? 

Robert. Of course I did; but that does not 
mean that I would not have done it for another. 
That drink's coming at a slow trot, I think. 

Harold. And you were the visitor who was 
expected to-night? 

Robert. I told you so. It's good I came ; that 
screaming freak could not swim. (Arising and 
walking toward the bracket in the corner of the 
room.) There it is! I told you so. Exactly 
where it was last night. 

Harold (standing in front of the bracket). 
You mistake ; there is nothing in it. Wait until 
Mr. Duvol returns. 

Robert. You are evidently not a toper. I can 

82 



Shadows on the Wall 



feel that it is filled to the brim. {Stretching his 
arm over Harold's shoulder toward the hracket.) 

Harold. I tell you there is nothing in it. You 
say you drank it up. It has not been filled again. 
{Seizing the flask, and as he does so, Robert's 
hand snatches it from him.) 

Robert. I don't mean to be rude, old man, 
but I'm bound to have a drink, and I don't see 
how it concerns you. {Opens the flask.) 

Harold {desperately struggling to grasp the 
flask) . It concerns me this much — this is the only 
brandy in the house, and it belongs to me. You 
are nothing to me. I did not invite you to drink. 

Robert, Of all the yellowness I have ever seen 
in life ! Swill it up ! choke on it ! I '11 be damned ! 

(Harold goes out hurriedly with the flask.) 
{Re-enter Elaine.) 

Elaine {jumping on Robert's lap). Mama 
did not wake up ! and I changed all my clothes ! 
Now, you've got another story for me, Uncle 
Bob! 

(Warwick and Josie come into the room. 

They stand a moment in the doorway unobserved 

by Robert and Elaine. Warw^ick seems to be 

transfixed with conflict of emotions. Josie flings 

herself on her knees before Elaine and kisses the 

child passionately.) 

83 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



Robert {arising from his chair and advancing 
to Warwick). We've become good chums, your 
girl and I. 

Warwick (dazedly). You are the man who 
saved her, and you knew whose child she was, 
and you brought her back to me ? 

Robert. Of course I did; why should I not 
have done so ? I told her to call me Uncle Bob. 
By the way I made her change her clothes. 

Wahwick (gazing anxiously at the bracket). 
Has anyone else been in the room ? 

Robert. I should think there was! I never 
met such a fellow as that ! the strangest person ! 
your secretary, he said he was. You remember 
the drink I had last night ? I saw the same flask 
on the bracket over there, and begged the fellow 
for a little drink. He said there was nothing in 
the flask, and when I tried to find out, he 
snatched it from me, and said it belonged to him ! 

Warwick. You say he took it with him ? You 
did not drink a drop ? 

Robert. How in the fiend's name could I? 
He said he wanted it all for himself. 

Warwick. And did he know who you were? 
That you were the visitor of last night, and that 
you were expected to-night? and that you saved 
my child — ^^and my life ? 

84 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



Robert. He could not have helped but know 
it ; he asked me about it a dozen times or more. 

Warwick. You had better go to bed now, 
Elaine; and don't tell your mama about what 
occurred. Kiss me, and kiss your Uncle Bo-b, too, 
and when you say your prayers, thank the dear 
Lord for sending your Uncle Bob here. 

(Elaine throws her arms about her father's 
neck and about Robert and kisses them again 
and again.) 

(JosiE and Elaine leave the room.) 

Warwick (advancing toward Robert and 
drawing his arm about him). Dear boy, do not 
think hard of Harold; he is one of the best 
fellows in the world. I have told him everything 
about you ; he meant no harm toward you at all. 
What he did was done to protect you — especially 
after what you did for me to-night ; I have told 
him of your single failing — your love for drink, 
which at times overpowers you. He is stern in 
his fidelity, no more. (While he is speaking to 
Robert, Harold enters the room, with looks of 
supreme happiness and peace.) Is that not true, 
Harold ? Is that not true ? And you're going to 
make your home now with me, are you not, old 
man ? 

85 



Shadows on the Wall 



Harold. It is true; what I did was in con- 
sideration of both of you. I emptied the flask 
of its contents and threw it away. 

Robert {impulsively grasping the hands of 
Warwick and Harold). Ill not be a yellow 
cur! I'll confess what I was about to do. When 
I carried her back to the shore, I thought for a 
moment of your being a little cold last night to 
me, as if you were ashamed of me — I thought of 
getting even with you — ^of taking the girl away 
with me — but when she laid her little head 
against my cheek, and gave all her trust to me, all 
the yellowness flew away — and I brought her back 
fast as I could. You know I've got a devil of a 
temper, but it does not last very long, and I can't 
be mean. But you don't want me to stay here 
now, after what I was going to do. 

Warwick. Indeed I do. Since you have con- 
fessed, let me make a little confession, too. I was 
a little angry last night at you, and wished for a 
moment something would happen to you; but 
that mood disappeared just as yours passed away, 
and the one who saved us both is the child that 
loves us both, and who re-unites our hearts for- 
ever. Harold, I don't think that a little drink 
would do any of us any harm to-night. You say 
you have thrown the flask away? The box of 

86 



Shadows on the Wall 



wine that I bought a while ago is yet unopened ; 
bring in three bottles, and let us drink to the 
health forever of friendship and love, the only- 
true glories of life. 



87 



Persons 
Paul Devere 
Jack McKee 
Little Paul McKee 

Scene : Library in the Devere household, in 
one of the large towns of Kentucky. 

Time: Present. 

The library is furnished with the finest of old- 
fashioned furniture. Light from lamp on table 
burns dimly, revealing Paul Devere in dressing 
gown reclining in an arm-chair, and Jack 
McKee, smoking a cigarette, lying on a lounge 
in one corner of the room, with a little dog 
cuddled up at his side. 

Paul : Is the little dog with you ? 

Jack: Close to my side; he feels the coming 
storm. 

Paul: I feel its coming, too, with all the 
ghosts from which I try to flee, the storm always 



Shadows on the Wall 



invokes. Give me a bromide, quick! my nerves' 
only relief — if for an hour only, blessed relief. 
Poor little dog ! my mother loved him so ! He 
kissed her hand even as she passed away, old 
Tom told me. Would I had died then instead 
of her! 

(Jack arises from the lounge and lays the 
little dog on Paul's lap. He then takes a 
'bromide tablet from a box on the top of the book- 
case, drops it in a glass of ivater beside the box, 
and stirring it with a pen-knife hands the glass to 
Paul, who quaffs its contents eagerly.) 

Jack {placing his arm about Paul's shoulder) . 
You have no ghosts to fear; they have all been 
laid by your atoning kindness. Whatever 
wrongs you did, they have been paid for thou- 
sand times and more. How few others in this 
world can say the same! If every one took a 
narcotic to escape from an accusing spirit, the 
greater part of the world would be sleeping all 
the time. You served your prison term for the 
crime for which you were convicted — a little 
defalcation, I believe; you paid your debt, and 
no man has a right to look askance at you. The 
convict who has carried out his sentence is 
worthier far of one's respect and honor than are 

89 



Shadows on the Wall 



the many criminals we meet each day in business 
whose misdeeds go unpunished. 

Paul. That is the least, old man, that 
troubles me. I served my sentence to the minute 
of the day, and every dollar lost by my trans- 
action I repaid with more than double interest. 

Jack. And most of those who howled the 
loudest about their lost dollar were those you 
had befriended before your fall. 

Paul. I can forget all that. It was worth all 
the horrors of disgrace, the golden chance to 
know who were my friends. I found but one true 
heart — you — you — Jack — you — who did not fear 
the shadow of my shame, but stood by me as 
when my sunshine reigned. No ghosts torment 
me there. But 'tis the fact that I killed my dear 
mother by the shock of my disgrace that broke 
her heart — that ghost can never die. 

Jack. Fear the dead least of all. The dead 
are wise, and therefore generous; they under- 
stand life's errors now, and pity us, but not con- 
demn. But that ghost, too, is laid. Self-sacri- 
fice atones for every wrong and error. Your 
sacrifice is one which staunchest hearts would 
shrink from — you give your life to kneeling in 
devotion before the shrine of memories that 

90 



Shadows on the Wall 



wound. This house that you live in because it 
was loved by your mother, turn it, for her sake, 
into a sacred temple, when the sight of its every 
feature arouses torments that invoke you to flee. 
To keep and manage the house just as she kept 
it — ^her bed-room like an altar preserved — ^old 
faithful Tom, the butler, her little pet dog, the 
cat and bird to be undisturbed in the comfortable 
daily routine; using the rich estate for charity 
only, and spending not a cent of it on yourself — 
you live here, defying the burns and stings of 
memory, and ostracism of the townspeople who 
rail at you as being shameless for having come 
back. 

Paul. I could not touch a dollar of it. I hold 
it as a holy trust estate, and when I die {placing 
his arm on Jack's shoulder), I leave it to my one 
faithful friend, who '11 use it reverently as I, and 
whose hands, unlike mine, are unstained. 

Jack {clasping Paul's hand). No one can 
foretell the whims of death. I may be the first 
to be gone. But if I survive you, of this fact rest 
assured — the estate will be carried on exactly in 
the same way as by you. The daily life in this 
house will run on unchanged; the peace of old 
Tom, the dog, and the cat will never be disturbed. 
The robins, when they come, will receive their 

91 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



daily morning bread, and the potted plants will 
not miss your attention. Old Black Jasper will 
never be refused his bundle of old clothes, nor 
Bridget Gorman her ' ' bit of tobacco to warm her 
nose," and as for your mother's precious cloth- 
ing and trinkets, which you keep locked up in 
her bureau drawer as sacred relics, I am resolved, 
if I have not one worthy to leave them to, 
to reverently burn them before I die. 

Paul. That is just what I want you to do. 
Never permit them to fall into profane hands. 
But I am haunted by a sweet dream that will 
never die — that lost love will return and live in 
this house with you, when I am away, and repay 
your unselfish friendship for me and warm and 
cheer you as I could never do. But that is the 
doorbell. Old boy, you'll have to go. I made 
poor Tom go to bed — his lumbago tormented him 
so. If any one wants to see me, tell him that I 
have retired ; but let any one who cares to do so 
stay for the night. I'll look after poor Tom. I 
do not think that a little toddy would do the old 
fellow any harm. 

(Paul goes out.) 

(Jack brightens the lamp, and goes out. A 
few moments afterwards, the door re-opens, and 
Jack re-enters the room in great agitation, fol- 

92 



Shadotvs on the Wall 



lowed hy Jennie McKee and Little Paul. 
Paul springs at once toward the lounge on which 
the little dog had taken possession, clasps it in 
his arms and fondles it affectionately. Then, 
suddenly noticing the hook-case, filled with hooks, 
he seats himself on the floor hefore it, the dog 
cuddling itself hetiveen his legs, and ravenously 
pulls out hook after hook from the case. Jennie 
attempts to kneel doivn hefore Jack, hut he 
quickly lifts her to her feet, and leads her to an 
arm-chair in the center of the room, with looks of 
anguish, dread, and pity.) 

Jennie {in excited whisper). I did not come 
to make any trouble — I did not come for a 
cent of money — I have no such feelings in my 
heart toward you — I came just for the boy's 
sake — before Grod I swear it ! I have lived a pure 
life for the last eight years; I was guilty with 
that one man alone — and lived only for the 
child — earning a hard, but honest living — I have 
no feelings toward you but remorse for the way 
I treated you and am willing to suffer forever 
for my wrong. He '11 be ten years old tomorrow. 
He was one year old when I ran away with him 
from you. I have tried to raise him well. He is 
wonderfully bright and loves to read. See how he 
goes after those books! I am not able to look 

93 



Shadows on the Wall 



after him and work, too, and my health is begin- 
ning to fail — and he needs a guiding father's 
care. I cannot trust any one to look after him at 
all, and he has a strong will of his own. I cannot 
expect you to have anything to do with me, hut 
he needs you now more than he does me, and I 
will keep out of your sight and his forever — only 
that I know he is safe with you. I did not want 
to embarrass you at the bank where you are 
employed, so waited until night and brought him 
here. I heard that you made your home with 
your friend after whom the boy is named. Only 
tell me that you '11 keep him, and I '11 quietly slip 
away. 

Jack. No, Jennie, you will not slip away. 
When you go from this house, we go together. It 
was I, and not you, that was guilty, Jennie. I 
gave my time and affection to my business 
instead of to you. How could your misfortune 
been other than it was ! You craved love, which 
it was the duty of your husband to bestow. He 
failed to give it — ^^although he felt it, but you 
could not know. A designing stranger quickly 
noticed my dangerous fault and took advantage 
of it — ^that is the plain, sad truth. Believe me, 
Jennie, since the day you went away, my heart 
has been haunted by the ghost of remorse. 

94 



Shadows on the Wall 



I searched in vain for you everywhere ; you seem 
to have disappeared from the sight of the earth, 

(Unperceived by any one of the three in the 
room the door partly opens and Paul's face 
appears, gazing in rapture at the hoy.). 

Jack. But we '11 not go out to-night, the storm 
is too wild — and I must first speak to my friend 
Paul, though I break his noble heart. I promised 
to live with him in this house until his death, and 
after his death to still live here and carry on his 
duty to the dead. But he's of a lofty soul — he'll 
understand that duty to the living comes before 
duty to the dead. 

(Paul approaches Little Paul, lifts him up 
into his arms and kissing him, stands in front of 
Jack and Jennie, and speaks to them with looks 
of supreme happiness.) 

Paul. There will be no need of any conflict 
between duty to the dead and duty to the living ! 
They will run together harmoniously. Is not this 
your home, Jack ? And is not your home the home 
of your wife and child ? And here is the heir to 
the house after we are gone, that I have prayed 
for, and all of our worries have now disappeared. 
See how he takes to mother's books and little dog ! 
God has surely sent him here to show that dark 

95 



Shadoivs on the Wall 



pasts are forgiven, and remorse has had its day. 
You say that to-morrow is his birthday? We'll 
have a jolly little party, won't we, Paul? And 
Jack {walking to the hook-case and picking up 
the box of bromides on the top), you may throw 
away the box of bromides — they will not be 
needed any more. Ghosts have gone away from 
this house forever, and in their place, angels are 
here. 



96 



Adversity 

PERSONS 

Robert Irvin, A lawyer 

Mrs. Appel, A boarding-house keeper 

Irma Bronner, Her assistant 

Harry Brooks, A bank clerk 

Scene : Room of Robert Irvin in the hoard- 
ing-house of Mrs. Appel, in Louis- 
ville, Kentucky. 

Time: 1909. 

(Robert is sitting alone in the room, on the 
edge of his bed, in torn and shabby dressing 
gown, in deep and gloomy r every.) 

Robert. Deeper and deeper dark shadows 
surround me — shades of adversity, shadows of 
woe. Hopes and dreams of my childhood fade 
far away from me, and spectres alone are my 
company. The spring of my youth has long 
frolicked away, and summer has followed its way 
of the past, and my autumnal leaves lie under the 
ice of my life 's bleak and pitiless winter, 

97 



Shadows on the Wall 



{A knock is heard at the door. Robert not 
answering it, the door slowly op ens y and Irma 
Bronner enters the room, hearing a package of 
mail.) 

Irma. There were two cents due on the pack- 
age, but I paid the postman for you. Oh, never 
mind about that! Don't you remember the 
stamp you gave me for my letter to Freddie 
about a week ago ? 

Robert {receiving the package from Irma). 
The same old sickening story — the manuscript 
returned again. (Abstractedly.) Oh, yes. By 
the way, what 's the latest news of Freddie ? 

Irma (aggrieved) . Have you forgotten al- 
ready what I told you about him last night? of 
his fine report that I showed to you ? 

Robert. Forgive me, Irma ; I remember now 
the pleasure your news gave to me; but the 
heavy night clouds that envelope my thoughts 
absorb all the bright rays that flash amidst their 
gloom, and make me unmindful of all but my 
darkness. I cannot remain here any longer, 
Irma ; I have no heart to make another promise. 
Mrs. Appel has been indulgent enough; I have 
no dream even of a prospect to pay her, or any 
one else, a cent of board. I must go, and at 
once ; but God alone knows where or how ; I must 



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find some kind of work to do, if it be but in the 
streets. 

Irma {impulsively). Mr. Irvin, do not be 
foolish — do not be angry with me! But if you 
would look at things in a practical way, and 
accept a few dollars that are of no use to me! 
You will soon be on your feet again; fortune 
will change its mood; and the only pleasure 
that we can have in this world is to help one 
another; you know that is true. You have 
helped so many others ; let others now help you. 

Robert. Foolish I may be, but angry with 
you, Irma, never. It is because I am looking at 
things in a practical way that I must refuse 
your proffered assistance. Had I one dream-fire 
emblem in which I could form a picture of the 
slightest change of fortune, I would accept your 
generous offer ; but cold practicability has frozen 
all my dream light away, and left me nothing to 
stare at but ashes. The most ungrateful people 
in the world are clients ; no matter how faithfully 
their lawyer may have served them they quickly 
forget his services, and they are the first to flee 
from him and to assail him when he falls into 
trouble. A lawyer with his office furniture at- 
tached and without means to rent a desk or office 
is regarded by them almost as a criminal, 

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although he may have saA^ed them from the 
penitentiary. Who would bring any business to 
me in my miserable state of fortune, excepting 
they who would tempt me in my desperation? 
There's no more despised object in this world 
than an unsuccessful lawyer. To win success, we 
must act the part of success; but to do so, we 
must have at least some paraphernalia ; I have not 
even a fragment of a costume to wear ; we cannot 
play the part in the nakedness of truth. But 
there is Harry Brooks. I can hear his step a half 
a square away — the best of fellows in the world, 
when there's nothing of him wanted, and when 
things go his way. 

Irma. He's at the door. I'll go and let him 
in ; perhaps he may be of help to you. 

Robert. Never think of that! He's one of 
those who from an outstretched hand flee as if 
from contagion. 

(Irma goes.) 

Robert. What can he want? Some free 
advice, no doubt, or legal work he does not wish 
to pay for. How there can be such contrasts 
between souls ! she, towering nobility, he creeping 
meanness — and breathing the same air! But I'll 
not be troubled with his company long ; I '11 ask 
him to lend me some money. 

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{Enter Harry Brooks, gayly.) 

Harry. That's a peach of a girl who opened 
the door for me. I'll get you to make a date for 
me with her. You don't mind sharing her with 
a friend? But what have I said? what have 

I done? 

Robert (indignantly). You have said enough, 
Harry Brooks, to insult hy word and thought one 
of the purest creatures on this earth. If this 
world were filled with women only half as good 
as ^he, it would be brilliant with the halo light of 
saints and angels. 

Harry. Well, there's no need of getting so 
up in the air about it ; she 's only a Jewess, after 
all ; and if she does walk a little straighter than 
Christian girls, it is because she expects to be 
the gainer by it; she'll make some fellow in the 
end pay for what she is missing. 

Robert. I hate to hear any one talk like that, 
especially one like you who should know so much 
better. I tell you, Harry, she's a noble girl, mak- 
ing a slave of herself to support her little 
brother. 

Harry (laughing cynically). Working to 
support her little brother! I have heard that 
before, and from public women. That is what 
they all call them — ^their little brothers. Are 

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you that soft? Sisters do not make slaves of 
themselves for little brothers. Well, I '11 not say 
another word about your pretty Jewess. By the 
way, it occurs to me that you always did have a 
liking for the Hebrews; I never could under- 
stand you, 

Robert. I remember that the Saviour of the 
world chose to be born of a Jewish maiden, and 
I bow my head in reverence to the Jews. 

Harry {quickly). Enough about that. I 
dropped into your office for a little advice, but 
the janitor met me in the hall and told me that 
you had removed from the building ; but he did 
not know where you had gone, and said that I 
might find you at your room. 

Robert. That was certainly an act of charity 
on the part of the janitor. By the way, he is 
a Jew. 

Harry. I fail to understand what you mean 
by that remark. Where's the charity in telling 
me that you had moved? 

Robert. His charity lay in this, that he with- 
held the ugly truth, unlike so many of my so- 
called friends in higher circles, who delight in 
parading it. He might have informed you of the 
humiliating fact that my office door was closed 
upon me and my office furniture attached 



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for debt, and that I am now without office or 
desk because I have not the money with which to 
pay rent. I am glad that you came to see me ; I 
was going to look you up ; I want you to help me 
out of my trouble a little. I will have to give up 
my room to-night. 

Harry (petulantly) . This is my usual rotten 
luck ! I have a little claim against a fellow that I 
wanted you to bluff out. I don't want to spend 
any money, and I don't want to go to law about 
it. You're the only lawyer that I know who 
would not charge me anything; every other 
lawyer wants a fee. But, of course, if you have 
no office or phone, you can do no bluffing. My 
usual luck! I'll have to see what I can do about 
it. (Starting to leave the room.) 

Robert. I'm sorry that I can do nothing for 
you now; but if you'll help me to get on my feet 
again, I'll be able to do something for you later. 
How much do you think you can conveniently 
lend me? I'd like to settle with my landlady, 
first of all. 

Harry. If you want anything like that, 
you'll have to talk to some one else, Robert. It 
is against my principles to borrow or lend. I 
think it is a very unbusiness-like proceeding, and 
do not believe in encouraging it at all ; especially 

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with my fine position at bank, and prospects of a 
much better one very soon, it would never do for 
me to indulge in such unbusiness-like methods. 
Remember what Shakespeare warns us about: 
' ' Neither a borrower or a lender be ; for loan oft 
loses both itself and friend." A good business- 
like motto, that; I am not at all anxious to lose 
your friendship or my money. 

Robert. But you must remember in whose 
mouth Shakespeare put that motto ; in the mouth 
of one of the most despicable creatures in fiction ; 
old Polonius was incapable of understanding 
true friendship, which delights more in giving 
than in receiving. Besides, remember that One 
greater than Shakespeare has said, ''And from 
him that would borrow of thee, turn not thou 
away. ' ' 

Harry. Well, I don't know who it was who 
said that; it's an unbusiness-like saying, I'm 
sure. But here's the thing; we all have our 
principles and ideas, and it is best for each of 
us to stick to them. You, for instance, have a 
fancy for the Jews ; for my part, I despise them. 

Robert. Despise the Jew or not, this you may 
take as an axiom; a Jew never cries for help to 
another Jew in vain, while Christians shut their 
ears on the moans of Christians; and the most 

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prejudiced enemies of the Jews would not dare 
to call them unhusiness-like people. 

Harry {looking at his watch uneasily). A 
quarter to eight ! I must hurry off ! I 've an 
engagement at the Seelbach at eight. A jolly 
little dinner party — wish you could be there — 
five dollars a plate, you know. Well, as soon as 
you have an office again, let me know, and if I've 
done nothing with it yet, I'll get you to help me 
out with this claim. Have a smoke? (Offering 
HoBERT a cigar.) No? stopped smoking, have 
you ? Better try this ; I paid ten dollars for the 
box of these cigars. I tell you, it takes money 

to live. 

(Harry hurriedly goes out.) 

Robert. Goodbye — goodbye — ^to such as you 
forever! What a hideous caricature is selfish- 
ness when unclothed! In the sunlight of my 
fortune, you kept your nature partly hidden, but 
in my darkness, you stripped it, and exposed its 
deformity! And this was the comrade of my 
earliest childhood! for whose sake I often was 
punished at school ! with whom I shared the con- 
tents of my daily lunch basket, selecting for him 
always the better share. This is he on whose 
account I made quarrels and enemies, and spent 
the pennies in my pocket for his share, not for 

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mine ; about whom I wove fancies of sweet life- 
long friendship, and of deeds of heroic loyalty! 
Well, let it be buried with my other dead dreams 
— this boyish dream of friendship lasting for- 
ever! without a flower to lie on its bier; let it 
rest undisturbed forever ! And now for another 
bitter morsel to swallow; I hear the footsteps of 
Mrs. Appel. (Taking off his dressing gotvn, and 
laying it on the hed, and donning his coat hang- 
ing on a chair.) 

(Enter Mrs. Appel, holding a handkerchief 
to her eyes.) 

Mrs. Appel. Oh my ! Oh my ! Oh my ! Mr. 
Irvin, youVe not treated me right! and it's all 
because I'm a poor widow, and too soft, as my 
husband said ! Yes, that is what my poor husband 
said, surely as I'm standing here on my tired, 
blistered feet. He died twenty years ago, but his 
words I can never forget. "Matilda, you're too 
soft, ' ' he said. I wish he were here to-night ; but 
I would not want him to know how I've been 
treated, all because I did not mind his warning 
words. He'd turn in his grave, Mr. Irvin, if he 
knew what you did to me ! (Again holding her 
handkerchief to her eyes.) Oh my! Oh my! 
Oh my! nearly two months board you owe me 
to-night! and there's the college opening up 

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Shadows on the Wall 



on the square above ; and students clamoring for 
neighborhood board! I could easily have three 
in this room to-night, if I were not too soft to 
turn you out. And, oh my ! Oh my ! Oh my ! 
I could put the law, Mr. Irvin, on you and attach 
all the things you have got, if I were not too soft, 
as my husband said. Mr. Irvin, if you've half a 
heart, you'd vacate to-morrow and give me your 
things of your own accord ! 

Robert. Mrs. Appel, it was my intention to 
give up this room to-night and as for my poor 
belongings, you can have everything that is mine 
in the room, excepting the clothes I have on, and 
my hat. {Picking up his hat lying on the hed.) 

Mrs. Appel. Oh my ! Oh my ! And that is 
no more than right! But mind you! I did not 
tell you to get out of the house to-night ! It will 
be just like people giving me a bad name, and 
saying I turned boarders out in the night ! But 
that is the thanks I get for being too soft, and 
not minding what my poor husband said. (Hold- 
ing the handkerchief again to her eyes.) Well, 
a poor widow must do the best she can do. I can 
get three dollars for that trunk — and it's open — 
yes, I can sell that white shirt, vest, and pair of 
white trousers ; they won't bring much — ^and that 
night shirt, too — to the old Polish Jew — and these 



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Shadows on the Wall 



collars, and cuffs, and neckties, too — ^and that 
umbrella there in the corner — and that bottle of 
ink I can use. That dressing gown — it will help 
fill up my bag of rags — rags are selling at better 
prices, now. I believe that's all. {Looking 
searchingly around the room.) Those old papers 
— you don't want them? Old paper is selling 
rather high, just now. I'll send Irma to gather 
the things together, and clean up the room for 
my new boarders — and Mr. Irvin — I don't bear 
you any malice — I'm too soft for that — as my 
poor husband said — ^^but I don 't see how you can 
sleep a bit until you have paid me every penny 
you owe! 

(Leaving the room, with handkerchief to her 
eyes.) 

Robert. Now, that ordeal is over. The next 
thing's to go where? {Donning his hat, and 
looking toward the door as in a stupor.) 

{Re-enter Irma, hurriedly.) 

Irma. You have given up your room, and all 
that you own, and without a penny in your 
pocket you are going out homeless into the night ! 
You would not refuse a gift, I know — a handker- 
chief, necktie, or pair of gloves ; what is the 
difference between them and a few coins? Mr. 

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Irvin, do not refuse my little gift. {Pressing a 
small purse into Robert's hand.) 

Robert. Since you picture it in that light, 
Irma, I cannot refuse your gift, and I will carry 
it as many do who wear holy medals. Yes, I have 
given Mrs. Appel all that I own, excepting the 
clothes that I wear and this dead dream {pick- 
ing up the package of mail which Irma had 
previously brought to him), this faded leaf of a 
hope once green that with my pen I could do a 
little good. This is a story I wrote that is old and 
true — that occurs every day as the world rolls 
on — of a pure girl who sacrificed all that she held 
dear for the sake of her loved ones — selling her 
virtue to be true — a victim of cruel business and 
custom. But editors dread to publish true stories 
as these, from fear that they may jar some of the 
guilty patrons' nerves; so like many other truths, 
it must perish on the way, crushed beneath the 
rolling wheels of policy. 

Irma {eagerly). You would not turn aside 
then, from an erring woman, Mr. Irvin ? 

Robert. I shake hands with erring men every 
hour of the day; why should I turn aside from 
erring women? 

Irma. Let me read your story; let me take 
care of it for you; I cannot believe that a good 



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thought is ever wasted; the purpose of its crea- 
tion will some time surely triumph ; one day, it 
must meet with opportunity to shine. 

Robert {handing the package to Irma). You 
may do with it what you will ; I feel that I can 
never write again ; I cannot write and at the same 
time live stories; I am living a story, and a 
tragic one, at that. 

Irma. I cannot agree with you; art is the 
daughter of soul and sorrow ; I believe that none 
except they who have suffered can picture or 
sing the songs of the human heart. 

Egbert. Well, goodbye, now, Irma ; you have 
been very kind to me; and you are the only 
person in the world whom I would regret to leave, 
if I should die to-night. 

(Robert goes out.) 

Irma (throwing herself upon her knees beside 
Robert's bed). God, protect him! God, 
protect me ! O God, protect us both ! For I love 
him. God ! I love him ! 



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